Author's note: This is one of my first novels I have written. I really enjoyed writing it and am looking forward... Show full author's note »
PrologueDecember 21st, 2003
It is a day that might not much to most of you, but it was the day I murdered my brother.
I remember being normal, but once the feeling struck, it took over me like some twisted disease. The first time I felt it was while watching a movie one day after school. I should have been doing homework, and I truly wish I was. Maybe I could have been normal, at least for a while longer. It was your typical horror movie, not real gory, just something you can find on cable television.
The feeling started when a young man was stabbed by his best friend due to jealousy. What I remembered most was the way the life left the man’s eyes as he fell to the ground, gasping his last few breaths. By then a tingling feeling started at the bottom of my spine, working its way up to the back of my neck. I stood up for no particular reason and walked into the kitchen. It was late, past my bedtime, and the kitchen was dark and empty.
A voice that was still sane in the back of my mind questioned my actions, but my thoughts hushed it. If I picked up the large knife sitting in the drawer, that did not guarantee I was going to hurt anyone with it. My fingers absentmindedly ran down the blade, and the image of the man, life draining from his eyes, replayed over and over. A light turned on in the hallway, and quickly I returned the knife back into the drawer. Silently, I slipped out of the kitchen.
I dismissed that day as nothing out of the ordinary as life went on as if nothing had happened. Every morning, I would sit in the kitchen, laughing with my brother as if a few nights before, I was not in the kitchen with a knife and still watching the movie. I would playfully throw a strawberry at him, reprimanding him jokingly to chew his pancakes with his mouth closed.
However, the feeling had not gone away completely. Occasionally, I would awake in the night and find my way into the kitchen, pulling the knife out the drawer. I would run my fingers down the blade, over and over again.
I was not going to harm anyone, I reminded myself.
It was a promise I would break.
“What are you doing?”
Every time my brother had a bad dream as a toddler, my parents would give him a glass of milk to calm him down. Even when they stopped, if he had a nightmare, the only way he could fall back asleep was if he had a glass of milk.
Ever so calmly, I smiled and said, “Don’t worry about it. Did you have a bad dream?”
I opened the fridge and poured him some milk. After drinking the entire glass, I walked him to his bed and then went to mine. As I laid there, the image of the man from the movie played in my head, except this time, the man was a boy. It did not take long to realize that the boy was my brother.
The tingling feeling took over my body, and I found myself planning out what I was going to do. The voice in the back of my head begged me to stop, but I told myself just thinking about it did not mean I was going to put my plan into action.
The tingling feeling stopped its irregular pattern of coming and going. It was there to stay. I tried to break free, tried to get the voice in the back of my head to return from the backseat. It was an impossible task. There was only one way, I realized, to get rid of it.
That morning I arose early, and walked into my brother’s room.
“Wake up,” I said soothingly, “we’re going for a walk.”
“A walk?” my brother asked, “This early?”
“Yes, this early. I have to show you something in the woods.”
My brother got up, giving me a questioning look but did not say anything. I was his role model, how, he thought, could I steer him wrong? I scared away the neighborhood bullies who picked on him, I helped him with his homework he just could not get, and let him vent to me all of the things parents just do not understand.
Quietly, we slipped out the door. We crossed the street, taking the short cut through the woods we use to walk to school.
“Why are we going to school?” he asked.
“No one is there on weekends.” I replied.
“What do you mean?”
I did not answer and we continued walking. Midway through our trip to school, I stopped him.
The tingling took over my entire body, causing my fingers to twitch with anticipation. As the normal me watched helplessly from the back of my mind, I pulled out the knife that was tucked away in my deep coat pocket.
“Now I want you to hold very still,” I said calmly, “If you do, you will not feel a thing. I promise.”
My brother’s eyes fell on the knife, and blocked its path which was headed toward his chest. It left a deep gash in his hand. At the sight of blood gushing from the wound, he screamed. He took off running, blood leaving a small trail behind him, but I was faster.
With no way to escape, he looked at me, fear filling his eyes.
“What are you doing to me?” he whispered, tears running down his cheeks.
The tingling ceased for the briefest of seconds, just enough time for me to realize what I was doing to a brother whom I loved so much. Who I did not want to lose.
“I love you. Forgive me.” I whispered back, now I was crying myself.
But the feeling came back, and the job had to be completed. I ran the knife into his chest, and I saw the life leave his eyes just like from the movie. And I was satisfied.
For a moment, anyways. Someone was going to find the body. What if the police were able to find out that I, his own sibling, had killed him?
But then I calmed down, for I was prepared. Reaching into my pocket, I took out a lighter. I laid my brother’s bloody body gently against the dirt. I then watched calmly as he burned until there was nothing but ashes. A gust of wind picked up, blowing them away, along with my fears.
As I thought about it later, I was relieved that no one had seen the smoke in the woods and called the police. It would be awful to have them find me and my human bonfire.
I walked home and slipped into bed as if nothing had happened.
When I woke up with my parents in a panic over the disappearance of their son, I knew I had not experienced a bad dream. The tingling was gone, and the realization over what I had done was too overwhelming. But how could I confess that I was the murderer? My parents would hate me. I had just lost my brother; I could not lose them too.
Weeks went by, and nobody could find my brother. My parents let me stay home from school and the three of us cried together. While they cried because they did not know what had happened to their dear son, I cried due to guilt. They would never know that.
I had to go back to school. I would go to school, blankly walking from class to class just to stare at a wall. When I got home, I would sit on my bed, my thoughts taunting me.
You’re a murderer, they cried, over and over.
I did not try to push them away. They were right.
Sometimes I would hear fighting. It would be when Dad mentioned a funeral. Finding his son, he knew, was hopeless.
But Mom would not allow it. It would be the end, an acceptance that he was dead. But everything has to end eventually.
At the funeral, the thoughts in my head were screaming one word over and over: Murderer. It was so loud, it was almost unbearable. I wanted to make it go away, and I had to stop myself from jumping up and screaming, “I did it! I committed the murder!” But I kept a solemn appearance.
Years passed me by, but the guilt never did. I would be reminded every time I saw my parents and their tight smiles which now lacked the full happiness they once contained. I would be reminded every time I would walk past my brother’s empty bedroom, left untouched since his death, with the exception of the detective that thoroughly searched it.
It had been seven years since I felt the tingling. I thought that maybe, it was gone for good. I was no longer living with my parents. I had gotten out of that miserable house as soon as I could, for I could no longer stand the reminders that haunted me.
However, I knew my hopes were too high when one night, I had a dream, so vivid it was like I was reliving the moment. As I saw the life leave my brother’s eyes, the tingling feeling returned once again.
I woke up, sweat drenching the blankets of my bed. The guilt was unbearable. I had to join my brother.
I got up and found a belt in my closet.
Wait, a voice in my head said, if you do this, you won’t be able to watch yourself die. Do you not want to feel the satisfaction you felt the minute you murdered your brother?
I put down the belt. The voice was right. I walked to the dresser and opened the bottom drawer. Under all of my socks and underwear was a small box. It was the jewelry box Grandma got me when I was a little girl. The purple box looked innocent with its pink bow and blue gems. However, inside it contained the knife, still stained with my brother’s blood.
May 17th, 2010
It is a day that might not mean much to most of you, but it was the day I committed my second murder.