He loved him with all his heart, and maybe that’s why he never told the truth, afraid of losing the one person for whom he truly cared. But as with all secrets, especially the dark ones, one can only hope to preserve secrecy for so long. As onlookers, we can gloat and laugh at his naive optimism, telling ourselves, “he should’ve expected this to happen.” Yes, yes he should’ve, but he didn’t deserve this. Neither of them did.
It was a quiet night with no trees rattling in the wind and no owls hooting up in the trees. Maybe that’s why the blood moon appeared all the more frightening. It was as though its eerie sheen subdued the forest itself, implanting a deep, primal fear in all living things. And then, suddenly, a haunting scream echoes in the woods.
Trailing the sound of horror, diving right in through the cottage’s open window, we arrive at a heartbreaking scene. A young man kneels on the floor, his distressed visage glowing bright red in the light of the evil moon. “Wake up!” he screams, frantically rousing his brother. Pulling and pushing, blowing air into the mouth of his dearest friend— doing anything and everything he can think of. But it’s not enough, for all he gets in response to his effort is silence. Frightful and heart-wrenching nothingness.
With each passing moment, the pool of blood expands, and so does the distress of the younger brother. In a frenzy, he wraps the remainder of his brother’s arm in a bandage. But to no avail, for it is soon overrun with blood. Finally, in resignation, he removes his bloodied hands from the torn remains of his brother’s corpse. And then, opens his mouth. An almost inhuman sound escapes him then, all of that sadness and bewilderment condensed into the sound of sheer despair. Weary arms fall to his sides as he stares blankly at the ceiling, mouth still wide open.
He stays like this for a while until, at last, determination surges to the surface of his broken mind.
Pondering, he bites his nails compulsively — blood gushing down his fingers and pain rushing up through his arm. He scrutinizes the scene spreading out before him. Fresh blood, soaked up by the once-white carpet, and on it lay the frugal remains of his dear brother. In the corner of the room, by the kitchen sink, lay what’s left of his brother’s arm, barely recognizable due to all the teeth marks and the missing flesh. “How strange,” he says to himself, frowning a the sight. Who or what could’ve caused such mutilation?
He inhales deeply, noting that the fragrance is different. Once the kitchen smelled of freshly baked bread, but now he can only smell the vile odor of death. Hang on… wasn’t it today? He remembers entering the cottage, fatigued after chopping wood all day when he was met by his brother’s sonorous smile. He was presented with a plate of fragrant cinnamon bread, wasn’t he? But what’s next? Pain erupts in the little brother’s mind as the rest of the memories come flooding in. Why is it that his beloved brother dropped the plate hard onto the kitchen floor, splintering into a million pieces? And what is that look on his face… fear? Why is his brother looking at him like that?! Why does he look as though his little brother is the one frightening him?
No. No way. The poor man presses down a heavy gulp and takes a good look at his hands. Sharp claws extend where human nails were supposed to be, and his hands are covered in blood, his brother’s blood. He is that beast who killed his beloved brother; it is his fault that naught but the pain remains for the both of them. He stands up, looking back at the door. Where, as expected, he sees broken pieces of white porcelain on the floor, intermingled with bloody bits of his brother’s bread. He turns a sad gaze to his brother’s corpse, “I’m coming to join you now.”
The man-wolf stabs himself in the heart, all the while a stream of tears rolls down his cheeks.
Then, he slugs his way toward his brother.
And, the once-man falls lifeless onto his brother’s back, praying with his last breath for forgiveness.
Benjamin Bratz 