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Description
It's the kind of thing you'd expect on a rainy night, after watching several horror movies and being jumpy, if not a little paranoid. But it didn't happen like that. It never does with me or my brother. All the little pieces seem not to fit together, but then you flip it upside down and find out that it goes into its slot perfectly. You just have to get over the portrait being incomplete and confusing.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright specks decorating the sky. Lazy smoke from my cigarette wafted through the air, mimicking the clouds that stuck around as if they were begging to rain. Eva had gone to bed nearly half an hour before, exhausted from a day of travel to visit her mother. I'd offered to go along, but her mother has never really been fond of me. She insists on counting her rosary beads in my presence, though how she could have possibly guessed my nonconsensual connection to Hell is beyond me. I doubt I have any ability to damn people, but she still has reason to be cautious. What if I eventually end up as volatile as Bittan?

Taking a slow drag from my cigarette, I noticed as a pair of headlights making their way up the driveway, moving a little too quickly for my comfort. Why was Bittan visiting so late? Wasn't the clock in his Mustang set? Even before he pulled up to the garage doors and silenced the engine, I caught the sound of his cursing. I furrowed my brow and sauntered in his direction, taking another drag from the cigarette and figuring I'd soon be lighting another. Who did he piss off this time?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" my brother hollered to his steering wheel. "Goddamn it!" His fists swung into the air and attempted to crash back down on the dash, but he stopped midway through the air, recognizing in a sudden flash of insight I sometimes think beyond his ability that the damage he would do might deny him his passage home. "Fuck!"

Swinging the door open, Bittan climbed from the driver's seat and stalked from his Mustang. He moved to slam the door, but again realized the force he might use could cause severe damage to his prized car. He continued cursing avidly until I finished my walk to his car and observed him rave in his obscene anger. I knew there was no possible way to calm him, so I'd have to wait until he'd gotten some of it out of his system. "God fucking damn it!" It was only then that I noticed the blood on his hands.

"Bittan!" I started, dropping my cigarette and closing the gap between us. I snatched one of his wrists and got a closer look, but I needn't have done that. The scent alone could tell me this was no illusion. He was saturated with it, with human blood. "What have you done?" I snapped as he tore his wrist from my grip. "What happened? Whose blood is this?"

Stomping firmly enough to crack the asphalt of the driveway, Bittan unleashed another abrasive, "Fuck!" He clenched and unclenched his fists, the first signal that he was actually calming down. The second one—the point at which I knew for certain it wasn't suicide to confront him—was his claws sheathing themselves. Droplets of blood cascaded to the ground, just as his growls spilled with them. "I don't know her fucking name!" he raved. "Some bitch! She wouldn't shut her damn mouth!"

Without a conclusion, Bittan stalked off toward the front door to my house. I chased after him, demanding, "You're not touching anything until you wash that blood off your hands!"

"I need a fucking drink!"

"And you know you won't be driving afterwards!" I snapped, prying open the door before he could touch the knob. He didn't bother wiping his feet before treading over the living room carpet and making his way into the kitchen. "Wash your hands, Bittan Abendroth!" I hollered, completely forgetting that Eva was trying to sleep. "Damn it," I muttered when I recalled a second later. I chased after my brother, knowing that trying to keep quiet would do no good when Bittan wouldn't follow my example.

It was actually a little unnerving to find him scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, rather than trying to drink from three beer cans in unison. I strode cautiously over to him, making sure my footsteps were heard, and observed him for two seconds in attempting to scratch off the top few layers of skin with a wire brush. Sadly, it took me that long to realize he'd soon be bleeding his own blood. I grasped his wrist again, scrutinizing him with determined eyes. But he didn't even look at me; he was too busy watching the blood that flowed down the drain.

Removing the brush from his hand, I set it down in the sink and shut off the water. He'd gotten all the blood he would off his hands with soap and water alone. What blood was left wasn't there in any physical sense, just like there was blood left on his hands from our escape from Germany. "Bittan, tell me what happened."

His eyes were glued to the sink. I finally noticed the blood clinging to his clothes. That would never come out. The interior of his car was probably smeared with it. He'd have to get it replaced. That wouldn't be much of a problem, although I knew I'd probably end up being the one to make the arrangements. I was vastly better at convincing people not to ask questions, and not through threats.

"I...I don't know," he began with more uncertainty than was typical for my brother. His words soon became a growl, which proved more calming to me. "She was just pissing me off, just like every damn other human on the face of the fucking planet." He scowled into the sink, his claws peeking out again. "She wouldn't shut the hell up. I told her to shut her damn mouth or get the fuck out of my car, and she did for a while. I don't...I don't know what happened. One minute I was just getting pissed, the next I was covered with blood and there was a body on the ground. I just kept thinking, 'That was too easy, who else can I—'"

His fingers twitching uncontrollably, Bittan lifted his hands to his head and grasped his hair. "I don't know...what...I can't...Sin, what the fuck?"

"Bittan, calm down. It'll be fine. The police will probably blame an animal or something. Humans can't make marks like what your claws do. Settle down." Of course, I was pulling this from thin air, but directing possible persecution away from him had proven effective in calming him after the massacre in Germany. I led him to the kitchen table and sat him down, pulling his hands from his head one at a time. "We'll just clean you up, and we'll get your car reupholstered, and the police won't have anything to link you to this. An animal did it, not you. They won't find us again, Bittan."

"My head hurts," my brother grumbled with a despairing frown. Although anyone could guarantee the ability of alcohol to cause a headache rather than cure one, I took a beer from the refrigerator and set it on the table in front of him. He didn't hesitate in the least in opening it and draining half the can.

As he finished this one and stole another, I went silently into the bedroom and found a set of clothes he could borrow for the evening. I'd go to get a quote on putting new interior in his car first thing the next morning. He wouldn't even know I or his car were gone around the hangover he was sure to have. He'd sleep on the couch half the day, take a double dose of aspirin, get himself home, then get drunk again. Life would continue, just like it always did.

The next day, the morning news had a story about a body mutilated beyond recognition. Bittan slept through it. Eva stared at the TV from the overstuffed chair she normally didn't like, although she'd been evicted from the couch, thanks to my brother. I never did tell her of Bittan's connection to the murder, but I have no doubt that she figured it out shortly after she realized the clothes my brother was wearing weren't his own. She knew about what happened in Germany, she knew Bittan was capable of murder.

My brother became a drunken recluse for several weeks afterwards, refusing to answer his telephone and seeing me and Eva when we visited only through a thick haze of alcohol. He didn't even bother listening to music in that time, wanting only to get drunk and forget that his claws had, again, been saturated in human blood—this time, the blood of an innocent. It was more than long enough for me to get his car fixed, but it took abducting him from his home and locking him in a back bedroom to break him of his alcohol-only diet.

He survived his first homicide in America. When I think of the people he's killed since then, sometimes I wish he hadn't. But he's my brother. My loyalty to him knows no bounds.

Description
It's the kind of thing you'd expect on a rainy night, after watching several horror movies and being jumpy, if not a little paranoid. But it didn't happen like that. It never does with me or my brother. All the little pieces seem not to fit together, but then you flip it upside down and find out that it goes into its slot perfectly. You just have to get over the portrait being incomplete and confusing.

The sky was clear and the stars were bright specks decorating the sky. Lazy smoke from my cigarette wafted through the air, mimicking the clouds that stuck around as if they were begging to rain. Eva had gone to bed nearly half an hour before, exhausted from a day of travel to visit her mother. I'd offered to go along, but her mother has never really been fond of me. She insists on counting her rosary beads in my presence, though how she could have possibly guessed my nonconsensual connection to Hell is beyond me. I doubt I have any ability to damn people, but she still has reason to be cautious. What if I eventually end up as volatile as Bittan?

Taking a slow drag from my cigarette, I noticed as a pair of headlights making their way up the driveway, moving a little too quickly for my comfort. Why was Bittan visiting so late? Wasn't the clock in his Mustang set? Even before he pulled up to the garage doors and silenced the engine, I caught the sound of his cursing. I furrowed my brow and sauntered in his direction, taking another drag from the cigarette and figuring I'd soon be lighting another. Who did he piss off this time?

"Fuck, fuck, fuck!" my brother hollered to his steering wheel. "Goddamn it!" His fists swung into the air and attempted to crash back down on the dash, but he stopped midway through the air, recognizing in a sudden flash of insight I sometimes think beyond his ability that the damage he would do might deny him his passage home. "Fuck!"

Swinging the door open, Bittan climbed from the driver's seat and stalked from his Mustang. He moved to slam the door, but again realized the force he might use could cause severe damage to his prized car. He continued cursing avidly until I finished my walk to his car and observed him rave in his obscene anger. I knew there was no possible way to calm him, so I'd have to wait until he'd gotten some of it out of his system. "God fucking damn it!" It was only then that I noticed the blood on his hands.

"Bittan!" I started, dropping my cigarette and closing the gap between us. I snatched one of his wrists and got a closer look, but I needn't have done that. The scent alone could tell me this was no illusion. He was saturated with it, with human blood. "What have you done?" I snapped as he tore his wrist from my grip. "What happened? Whose blood is this?"

Stomping firmly enough to crack the asphalt of the driveway, Bittan unleashed another abrasive, "Fuck!" He clenched and unclenched his fists, the first signal that he was actually calming down. The second one—the point at which I knew for certain it wasn't suicide to confront him—was his claws sheathing themselves. Droplets of blood cascaded to the ground, just as his growls spilled with them. "I don't know her fucking name!" he raved. "Some bitch! She wouldn't shut her damn mouth!"

Without a conclusion, Bittan stalked off toward the front door to my house. I chased after him, demanding, "You're not touching anything until you wash that blood off your hands!"

"I need a fucking drink!"

"And you know you won't be driving afterwards!" I snapped, prying open the door before he could touch the knob. He didn't bother wiping his feet before treading over the living room carpet and making his way into the kitchen. "Wash your hands, Bittan Abendroth!" I hollered, completely forgetting that Eva was trying to sleep. "Damn it," I muttered when I recalled a second later. I chased after my brother, knowing that trying to keep quiet would do no good when Bittan wouldn't follow my example.

It was actually a little unnerving to find him scrubbing his hands at the kitchen sink, rather than trying to drink from three beer cans in unison. I strode cautiously over to him, making sure my footsteps were heard, and observed him for two seconds in attempting to scratch off the top few layers of skin with a wire brush. Sadly, it took me that long to realize he'd soon be bleeding his own blood. I grasped his wrist again, scrutinizing him with determined eyes. But he didn't even look at me; he was too busy watching the blood that flowed down the drain.

Removing the brush from his hand, I set it down in the sink and shut off the water. He'd gotten all the blood he would off his hands with soap and water alone. What blood was left wasn't there in any physical sense, just like there was blood left on his hands from our escape from Germany. "Bittan, tell me what happened."

His eyes were glued to the sink. I finally noticed the blood clinging to his clothes. That would never come out. The interior of his car was probably smeared with it. He'd have to get it replaced. That wouldn't be much of a problem, although I knew I'd probably end up being the one to make the arrangements. I was vastly better at convincing people not to ask questions, and not through threats.

"I...I don't know," he began with more uncertainty than was typical for my brother. His words soon became a growl, which proved more calming to me. "She was just pissing me off, just like every damn other human on the face of the fucking planet." He scowled into the sink, his claws peeking out again. "She wouldn't shut the hell up. I told her to shut her damn mouth or get the fuck out of my car, and she did for a while. I don't...I don't know what happened. One minute I was just getting pissed, the next I was covered with blood and there was a body on the ground. I just kept thinking, 'That was too easy, who else can I—'"

His fingers twitching uncontrollably, Bittan lifted his hands to his head and grasped his hair. "I don't know...what...I can't...Sin, what the fuck?"

"Bittan, calm down. It'll be fine. The police will probably blame an animal or something. Humans can't make marks like what your claws do. Settle down." Of course, I was pulling this from thin air, but directing possible persecution away from him had proven effective in calming him after the massacre in Germany. I led him to the kitchen table and sat him down, pulling his hands from his head one at a time. "We'll just clean you up, and we'll get your car reupholstered, and the police won't have anything to link you to this. An animal did it, not you. They won't find us again, Bittan."

"My head hurts," my brother grumbled with a despairing frown. Although anyone could guarantee the ability of alcohol to cause a headache rather than cure one, I took a beer from the refrigerator and set it on the table in front of him. He didn't hesitate in the least in opening it and draining half the can.

As he finished this one and stole another, I went silently into the bedroom and found a set of clothes he could borrow for the evening. I'd go to get a quote on putting new interior in his car first thing the next morning. He wouldn't even know I or his car were gone around the hangover he was sure to have. He'd sleep on the couch half the day, take a double dose of aspirin, get himself home, then get drunk again. Life would continue, just like it always did.

The next day, the morning news had a story about a body mutilated beyond recognition. Bittan slept through it. Eva stared at the TV from the overstuffed chair she normally didn't like, although she'd been evicted from the couch, thanks to my brother. I never did tell her of Bittan's connection to the murder, but I have no doubt that she figured it out shortly after she realized the clothes my brother was wearing weren't his own. She knew about what happened in Germany, she knew Bittan was capable of murder.

My brother became a drunken recluse for several weeks afterwards, refusing to answer his telephone and seeing me and Eva when we visited only through a thick haze of alcohol. He didn't even bother listening to music in that time, wanting only to get drunk and forget that his claws had, again, been saturated in human blood—this time, the blood of an innocent. It was more than long enough for me to get his car fixed, but it took abducting him from his home and locking him in a back bedroom to break him of his alcohol-only diet.

He survived his first homicide in America. When I think of the people he's killed since then, sometimes I wish he hadn't. But he's my brother. My loyalty to him knows no bounds.