(no subject)
I just woke up from a dream that I killed my brother when he was younger. Maybe around the age of 12. Maybe somewhat younger. I was my present age. We were living in our old house in Lake Station, ghetto town less than suitable for someone of his innocence. I guess he was becoming mentally unstable. He was losing his mind in the saddest sort of way. I guess it was supposed to be a mercy killing on my behalf. For some reason I knew he was becoming homeless. I prepared myself with a bottle of wine and a picture of some famous demented grown man as a remind of what would be to come if he lived, I did it robotically... without emotion...perhaps with a great deal of resentment.
When it came time, I took him outside. It was late at night and it was comfortingly warm. I was nearly finished with my second bottle of wine. He went out a moment before me and when I joined him, he was puffing on one of my cigarettes that I had out. I lit one for myself and had him walk in front of me, unaware that his life was about to end. I remember staring at the back of his head and lovingly noticing the way his bright red hair was shining angelically in the street lamps while we walked slowly. We were walking just past the front of our house when I shot him in the back of the head. He was still conscious and I quietly told him we should turn around the corner and walk through the dimly lit alleyway behind the house. He seemed in shock rather than in pain and said to me in only a way that a child could that he felt funny.
We walked for a few houses through the alleyway before he became faint. I caught him in my arms as he was about to fall and laid him on some makeshift, small wooden table as he died. Blood seeped from his tiny skull and while the life drained from him, I sobbed and and begged him for forgiveness. Right as his eyes were closing, I told him I loved him.
My mom ran up to us and when she saw him, I told her to go call the cops. They came quickly upon me still holding my brother, bathed in his blood. I told the two cops what had happened in mechanical sentences and for some reason what I had done seemed totally acceptable. The cops even joked around with each other as they separated my brother from me and I resented them. As I watched them pull my brother's limp body from the table, I focused my attention to the second bottle of wine, nearly finished, that I had placed next to him. Alongside him was also a framed picture of the famous demented man whose eyes were haunting me, also the gun, also the cigarettes.
When it came time, I took him outside. It was late at night and it was comfortingly warm. I was nearly finished with my second bottle of wine. He went out a moment before me and when I joined him, he was puffing on one of my cigarettes that I had out. I lit one for myself and had him walk in front of me, unaware that his life was about to end. I remember staring at the back of his head and lovingly noticing the way his bright red hair was shining angelically in the street lamps while we walked slowly. We were walking just past the front of our house when I shot him in the back of the head. He was still conscious and I quietly told him we should turn around the corner and walk through the dimly lit alleyway behind the house. He seemed in shock rather than in pain and said to me in only a way that a child could that he felt funny.
We walked for a few houses through the alleyway before he became faint. I caught him in my arms as he was about to fall and laid him on some makeshift, small wooden table as he died. Blood seeped from his tiny skull and while the life drained from him, I sobbed and and begged him for forgiveness. Right as his eyes were closing, I told him I loved him.
My mom ran up to us and when she saw him, I told her to go call the cops. They came quickly upon me still holding my brother, bathed in his blood. I told the two cops what had happened in mechanical sentences and for some reason what I had done seemed totally acceptable. The cops even joked around with each other as they separated my brother from me and I resented them. As I watched them pull my brother's limp body from the table, I focused my attention to the second bottle of wine, nearly finished, that I had placed next to him. Alongside him was also a framed picture of the famous demented man whose eyes were haunting me, also the gun, also the cigarettes.