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The address that Velveteen had given me is a house. A nice little cottage out on the outer edges of the city, with its little white fence and garden gnomes welcoming visitors as they trod up the path. It’s in a neighbourhood that I don’t quite belong in; as I stand there with the hood up over my face, only the tattoos on my hands showing, a get a few wary looks. A mother and her daughter literally actually cross the road to avoid me. I smirk, but take a step back, further into the shadows of the shrubbery. I’m in a park. This quaint little cottage is across the road from a park, for crying out loud. In the park there’s a jungle gym—colourful, and clean. I can imagine that, during the day, this place would be filled with laughing children.

I don’t want to draw too much attention to myself. I don’t want to be seen at all. There, across the road, is the house within which, apparently, Uncle Tommy lives. As soon as I first set eyes on the place, I didn’t believe it. I instead believed that Velveteen’s intel must have been wrong. That there is some other Thomas Fforde, and it is his doorstep that I have been directed to. There’s no way my Uncle could—

--but then I see him. I hardly recognise him.

The man from my nightmares wore jeans with grease spots on them, holes ripped at the knees. He wore wife-beaters that had once been blue but were faded due to overwear. He always smelled of bad body odour, always had stubble of some kind, and his hair was thin up top—he was balding—and long, pulled into a greasy little ponytail at his neck. The man I remembered had been overweight, but surprisingly quick for all his decrepitness.

The man who walks out of the house across the road is still a little overweight, but not as much as he used to be. He wears tan slacks and polished boots. He is bald on top, but has a ring of hair over his ears, curling around the back of his head. The pony tail has been cut off. The face is clean-shaven, but there’s no mistaking it. There’s still that one crooked tooth that protrudes over the lower lip. And there are still those eyes – squinted, an emotionless dark brown. Literally, eyes like a rat.

”Just because he’s changed, doesn’t change what he did.”

Jordan is beside me, whispering in my ear. He is an ethereal presence; the whisper doesn’t even press a small gust of wind against my ear. It’s more like a thought, heard out loud. It’s the truth, I know. I stand with my arms crossed over my chest, unable to decipher the multitude of emotion that barrages my senses.

Everything about Phoenix, and Axel, and whatever betrayal he might have committed, has been banished. Here, and now, I have only one focus, one intent, one thing that I need to achieve. I need to kill Uncle Tommy. And yet! Look at him. This would have been so much easier if the address I’d been sent to was some other apartment complex; if I’d found him living in the kind of squalor that only evil men could gather around themselves.

It’s not all so black and white though, is it? I suppose, Uncle Tommy might never have intended to be evil. I can’t say I remember too much about him, except that he was always drunk, that he treated out mother like ****. I remember only the bad things. I narrow my eyes at this new apparition across the road, and try to remember the good things. Were there any? Did he ever once treat Jordan and I like a father might? Did he ever try to step into our father’s shoes? I really don’t think he did. Of course, regardless, any mild good act that he might have undertaken is eclipsed by that one memory I have that I now know is not a nightmare. It actually happened. This ******** threw my brother off the roof of a six story tenement, and then threatened me to keep my quiet.

The man across the road tosses a rubbish bag in the dumpster. Just as the dumpster’s lid closes, a car pulls into the driveway. Out of it steps a woman—not strikingly attractive, by any means. Buxom, going grey, but well-kept. Neat. Respectable. Uncle Tommy smiles indulgently and leans in to give the woman a chaste kiss. He helps her with the groceries, which they unload from the boot of the car. They disappear through the front door of the little cottage. The lights inside are warm. Homely. Welcoming.

I wonder whether Uncle Tommy feels guilty. Whether, after the death of Jordan, he somehow sought the light. Whether some priest, somewhere, gave him some nugget of wisdom, which transformed him into someone better. Someone cleaner. Someone who no doubt goes to AA meetings once a fortnight. I wonder whether this Uncle Tommy deserves the many fantasies that I had—the torture that I was going to put him through, before finally condemning him to a silent and final death. I can my head to the side as I wonder—where would I be, if Uncle Tommy hadn’t thrown Jordan from the top of that roof?

Truth is; the only reason I am psychologically damaged is because of the events of that night. Because of Uncle Tommy. The only reason I garnered and attitude, skipped school, and generally caused trouble was because of my psychological damage, and because my ‘family’, such as they were, and their ineptitude to deal with it. Their tendency, thereafter, to treat me as if I were broken, and discarded me like a toy that they no longer had need for. It was my psychological damage that led me to excel in art rather than any of the more scholarly pursuits. And thus why I ended up apprentice in a tattoo parlour. Why I started my own parlour. Why I met the dangerous, banshee of a red-head who made me what I am now. A vampire. A force to be reckoned with.

And who am I to complain? I like where I am now. I like it. I have a home that actually feels like a home. I have a ‘family’ that actually acts like a family. Sure, yes, okay, I feel as if one member of that family has recently betrayed me, but whatever. I have everything I ever wanted. And when I think about it, when I really ponder it, I have to wonder whether there’s such a thing as fate. Whether all the bad **** happens only to lead a person to a better place.

But I don’t believe in destiny. What a load of horse ****. If Uncle Tommy hadn’t thrown Jordon from that rooftop, Jordan would still be here. Who the hell knows? I might still have excelled at art rather than any other scholarly pursuit. I may still have ended up with my own tattoo parlour. I might still have met Phoenix. I might still be a vampire—except, through it all, I’d have my brother by my side. My twin. My comrade. My partner in crime.

There’s a tickle on my cheek—cold, wet. I reach up to wipe it away. The wetness glistens on my fingertips. My jaw tightens.

No. **** Uncle Tommy and his newfound happiness. The ******** doesn’t deserve to be happy. He deserves to die, horribly, excruciatingly. He deserves to pay for the life he’s put me through, without my brother. He deserves to pay for the life he took from my brother.

And so I remain where I am, nestled in that shrubbery. I remain absolutely still. I watch, and I wait. And I will continue to watch, and I will continue to wait, until I know Uncle Tommy’s routine. I’ll wait until I can get him alone. And then he’ll understand that he did not just take the life of an innocent child, that night. No, he also helped to create a monster.

Of course I can’t keep watch twenty-four-seven. But, luckily for me, I have Jordan for that. I leave the creepy kid in my little hiding place while I find a place to hole up for the day. There have been a few nights (and days) now that I’ve spent outside of the Eyrie, and have come to no harm. Maybe I’m getting too relaxed. Maybe that’s what our enemies want from us—to catch us off guard. In my current state of mind, however, I can’t seem to care. If anyone tries to attack? They won’t catch me off guard. They’ll get back exactly what they give. I may not reciprocate in the Christmas present department (and nor do I intent to) but I am a very giving man when it comes to meaningless violence.

The intel that we gather, I suppose, isn’t going to be normal. It’s the Christmas holidays. No one’s movements are normal, over the Christmas holidays. But in the end, I realise it doesn’t matter. I don’t really care what Uncle Tommy’s daily routine is. He’s not a man of significant importance. He’s not going to be a high priority when he’s reported as missing. He doesn’t have a bodyguard who I’m going to have to try to elude. He is just an ordinary man with ordinary urges and it won’t take long until I get him on his own.

It happens on the second night. He comes out of the house, all rugged up in layers of Winter clothing. The breath steams in front of his face. He pauses just outside the front door as he stashes his wallet and his keys in one of his many pockets, and pulls a beanie onto his head. Heavy shoes crunch against the pavement as he wanders down the path, through the creaking gate, and out onto the sidewalk. He turns left, like a man who knows exactly where he’s going. And he’s by himself.

I let him take the lead; only after I know I can keep a safe, undetectable distance do I begin to follow, Jordan drifting along with me. It’s still early in the night, just after sunset. All the houses we pass are filled with warm glows and the sound of general merriment. I ignore it all as I keep my attention steadfastly focused on Uncle Tommy.

We exit suburbia as soon as we pass the Watchtower Market. There are a few abandoned buildings, before the streets start filling with people, making their way to and from work, or to and from social gatherings.

I can’t say I’m surprised when Uncle Tommy enters the Casino. Underneath his heavy layers he’s wearing a seedy old suit—something cheap, something second-hand. But it gets him inside. I’m still wearing a hoodie, beneath a leather jacket; jeans and sneakers. They don’t dare to not let me in, though, as much as they want to bar my way. One bouncer steps forward, but I have only to give him one long, steady glare from beneath my hood before he steps aside. I figure I make him feel a bit uneasy, and he’d prefer to let me become someone else’s problem, rather than have to deal with me himself.

I keep the hood up over my head, covering my features, as I follow Uncle Tommy. He heads straight for the card tables. I sit at a nearby pokie machine, every now and again sliding a coin into the slot. I hardly pay any attention to my own game. Instead, I’m watching Uncle Tommy as he makes his bets. As he seems as if he’s on a winning streak, only to get too cocky and lose it all. As he doesn’t cut his losses—as he continues anyway, clinging to a stray hope that he’ll start winning again.

I wonder if his buxom woman knows where he is. I imagine that he’s probably told her he’s gone to buy some milk. Or that he’s meeting a friend for a quiet coffee. I doubt that she would condone this kind of behaviour. And I suppose no one can truly change, can they? I think of all the new people I have got to know. I think of their flaws. I think of the ways in which they have betrayed my trust. I start grinding my teeth, thinking that they might never change. They might be just like Uncle Tommy—they might think they’re on a winning streak, only to slowly lose everything. Only to slowly sink back into their old habits. I don’t want to be such a pessimist, really, but given my life, it’s hard not to be. Especially sitting here, watching this man who I thought had actually turned over a new leaf. Give him another year or two, and he’ll probably be right back where he started.

I’m not going to give him a year or two, though. It’ll be hard to give him an hour or two. Though I hope that my patience wins out, and that I give him another night or two. Maybe a week. I wonder how long this cockroach will last before he finally gives in and begs for death.

It’s a few hours later that Uncle Tommy finally stands, defeated, and leaves the card table. No money left, he wanders, dejected, back toward the exit. I abandon my pokie machine and follow him. He gathers his coat from the coat room, and begins the long walk home. My hope that he takes the same route home that he took to the Casino is rewarded. I don’t let him keep such a long lead, this time. Slowly, I catch up to him, slowly, slowly, gaining on him, until he’s level with the abandoned factory.

It’s now nearly midnight, and the streets around this part of town are near deserted. Still. I stealthily creep to the stoop of the entrance to the factory. I whistle, low and inviting. Uncle Tommy stops and peers in my direction. I make sure that I am mostly hidden by the shadows, only my hands and maybe the tip of my nose viewable as I gesture for him to come closer. He glances around, as if I might be gesturing to someone else. When he turns back, I gesture again.

Of course, he’s an idiotic man who would let his curiosity get the better of him. This works well in my favour. I wait until he is close enough, until his stinking breath cloys the space between us.

“Yes?” he asks.

And then he catches the dangerous, twisted smile on my lips. He realises that he made a mistake, coming this close. He tries to stumble backward, but it’s too late. Lightning quick, I reach out and grab him. I hold a hand tight over his mouth and haul him into the abandoned factory.

Now – let the games begin.

I admit, I could have done a little more recon. I could have planned this better—I’d intended to plan this better, thus why it’s taken so long for me to get around to it, after Velveteen’s text of an address. Recent events have sent me into a spiral, however, as much as I won’t admit that to anyone; I’m hard-pressed to admit it even to myself.

I don’t know whether this warehouse will be empty, even if it does look completely abandoned from the outside. You never know the kind of miscreants who create homes in these places. Street kids, or the homeless in general. A scene plays itself in my imagination in that split second between the slamming of the door and my assessment of my surroundings. I imagine that I have stumbled with this struggling man, whom I loathe, into the midst of a group of homeless, starving, useless humans. They are just a waste of space, a waste of air; the offcuts of a society that does not want them, that does not think about them that does not care. I imagine, in my haste, slaughtering them all. This place could be a blood bath; and for that split second I almost hope that I have done just that.

However, as I quickly glance back and forth, sight probing into the shadows and ears straining for any sign of life, I see and hear no one. There’s squeaking somewhere in a back corner—scuffling, of rodents in trash. There’s the sound of dripping water—ice melt from the roof, slithering and sliding through the cracks in the façade.

The warehouse looks like an old fishery, maybe used before all the business shifted across the other side of the river. There are hooks hanging from the ceilings and old discarded nets, crumpled and torn and black with time. There are grooves, gutters cut into the cement floor where melted ice would flow, where the guts and innards of the fish, the scraps, would be hosed, and washed away. Again, I imagine how it might have gone had I walked in on a bunch of humans. I could imagine hanging them from those hooks like stuck pigs; could imagine slitting their throats and watching as the blood spilled and whirled into those gutters, ready to be washed out to sea.

Just because I haven’t walked in on a bunch of humans, however, doesn’t mean that I can’t be privy to such a violently beautiful scene.

One might wonder why I am so sadistic in my imaginings. One might wonder whether it’s a new development; some psychological break given all the recent trauma that I have suffered, both physically and mentally. It’s not really a new development, however. It’s a dormant sadism that has always existed. No, I was not one of those kids who’d torture and maim animals for his own amusement. Animals never did anything wrong. I did, however, imagine the ways in which humans could die. When lost in thought I’d imagine all kinds of Final Destination-esque scenarios. When riding on a bus behind a truck carrying steel beams, I’d imagine a tragic collision where those steel beams would come hurting through the glass front of the bus, to skewer and spill the innards of those inside. I had a fascination with death and dying; I wanted to know what it looked like. What it really looked like.

I suppose now, I have the means by which to quench my curiosity.

I haul Uncle Tommy toward one of the discarded nets. I do not care that there’s a tiny hood protruding from the netting that I collect from the floor; I do not care that as I roughly tie this netting around Uncle Tommy’s mouth, to keep him quiet, that the small hook digs into his cheek, puncturing the skin. Blood spills, slow and seeping, from the torn gash. The crisp atmosphere is punctuated by the hot scent of his blood, out of place. I am always thirsty. Always, without fail. The hunger claws and rips at my gut, my throat, my mind. But I do not crave Uncle Tommy’s blood. The scent of it does nothing to further incite my hunger. To drink his blood would be like drinking two month old milk—rank, and likely to make me sick.

I use another piece of netting to secure Uncle Tommy’s hands behind his back; I kick him behind the knees, sending him—screams muffled—to the ground. I hog tie him, not caring if his limbs are twisted at odd angles. I know that this small pain that I am subjecting him to will not lead to a quick and merciful death, and so I do not proceed gently. With my prey tied and unable to move, I stand to assess my surroundings with greater care and curiosity. As I have not pre-planned this, the only tools at my disposal are the ones that the warehouse has to offer—as well as those that I have on me. I have my sword. I have a dagger. I have a gun.

I suppose a dagger is all I need. But I want to prolong this, as long as I can.

There’s a lever and pulley system controlling one of the hanging hooks. I drag Uncle Tommy over to it. I suppose it was once used to haul sharks and bigger fish into an upright position. Now, I make sure that the hook and chain is loose and easy to manoeuvre. I could of course attack the hook to the ties of the netting securing Uncle Tommy’s hands and feet. That would be too easy, however. Instead, I take the blunt edge of the hook and press it against the meaty flesh of Uncle Tommy’s thigh. He knows, of course, what I’m about to do. His eyes widen and his muffled screams are more persistent as I assume he’s begging me to stop. I won’t, though.

With superior, supernatural strength, I push the blunt hook into the flesh. I push and twist and drill; I wrench and weave, old, slightly rusted metal piercing through skin and muscle. Uncle Tommy’s struggles only make it worse for him, helping to widen the hole through which I plan to secure the hook. Once the hook is in place I stand and approach the pulley; I wind the wheel, using both hands and pushing and pulling, watching as the hook does its job. It hauls a screaming, now-sweating Uncle Tommy into the air. There’s a tear as the weight appears to be too much for the hook, but it does not let go. It tears through the skin of the thigh but catches the swinging man by the calf, tearing and hooking into the skin there, lodging into bone.

The scent of blood is now all that I can smell. The screaming turns into sobbing, until the man goes silent. I don’t want him to die of blood loss. I pull off my jacket and secure it tightly around the torn and gory thigh.

Uncle Tommy may have peace in darkness for a little while. When he wakes up again, he’ll regret that he didn’t will himself to die.

There are a few things that pass through my mind in the silence that follows the ceasing of my Uncle’s muffled pleading. First, in a moment of regret, I conclude that I should hurry the process because I have only until dawn to complete what I need to complete. What follows is a flurry of pride and pleasure; I have learnt, taught myself the willpower to resist the strange and mysterious allure of the sun. Although I cannot walk in it, I am no longer subject to forced sleep when it makes its appearance over the horizon. Although it’s probably best to keep my actions discreet during the daylight hours due to possible increase in foot traffic outside, I doubt that anyone will bother me. If they do, then they will regret it.

Impatient, at least in this, I find a bucket and working tap. I pour water, ice-cold, into the bucket and return to my prey. I splash the water over his face, his pathetic body. He awakens with a startled gasp, followed by a low, keening moan as he’s assaulted by pain.

I know the first thing that I want to do. I pull the dagger from my boot. The silver glints in the light drifting through from outside. All the lower front windows are boarded up, but those up higher allow in the glimmer of moonlight. A clear night, despite the clouds the rest of the week. As I approach, Uncle Tommy goes quiet. His eyes are steadfast upon me, his head wrenched back at an awkward angle. I can see his Adam’s Apple bobbing in his throat as he swallows, and then starts to whimper.

I put a finger up against my lips; tell him to shhh. There’s no recognition in those rat-like eyes of his. Just pure fear. He thinks I’m some thug. I tug the netting away from his mouth; he takes a ragged breath, ready to roar; before he can scream for help, however, I wrench open his mouth and pull out his tongue, holding the slipper thing tight between vice-like fingers. I hold his frantic stare. I narrow my eyes. I will him to remember; to think about why I am doing what I am doing. Why his tongue should mean so much to me.

And then slowly, deliberately, one slow cut at a time, I slice his tongue from his mouth. Blood stains his teeth and his shouts are gurgles in his throat. The blood drips to the blackened cement, to join the puddle that had already gathered from his torn thigh. I stick the netting back in place to muffle any further screaming.

I am no expert in the art of torture. I lose myself to the sensation, however; that I have him here, that I can do to him as I wish. The dagger is my main source of power. I cut and stab and sluice. I tear the clothes from him, leaving him absolutely naked and vulnerable. He is but a pig, a mammal ready for the slaughter. He is no human to me. He is not a man with feelings, or with a chance at redemption. He will get no mercy, no quarter, from me. He may as well be a creature without a soul. He is lower than a pig. He is but an overlarge, squirming maggot. A science experiment, given to me to do with as I wish—for the good of discovery.

No, that’s a lie. There’s no noble cause behind this man’s suffering. Nothing but my own pleasure.

If I allowed him to live, the images that I carved into his skin would have been permanent; a tattoo created from scars. But this man does not have my respect, and so I will not allow him to wear my art. I flay him. I spay him, like a dog, like a man who does not deserve his masculinity. I gouge out his eyes. I his ears off, one at a time. I mangle him beyond recognition.

I am aware of the day passing outside. I am aware, because at one point I am forced to move my little hobby further into the warehouse, so as to avoid the rays of sunlight beaming through the high, broken windows. I find a room that might once have been office. There’s an old desk, still—some metal cabinets, paper still inside. When I have finished doing all the gruesome things to Uncle Tommy that I had wrongfully projected onto the masses all my life, I turn the office’s furniture into a pyre.

Uncle Tommy is still alive. He’s still breathing, and moaning, and no doubt, by now, begging for it all to end. I want him to beg for years, but by now I am keen only for his death. I want the blight of him, and of his memory, to be erased from my life.

He is still alive as I set up the pyre around him. He’s still alive as I light the kindling. He’s still alive as the flames begin to lick at his broken flesh. The smell of fresh blood morphs into the smell of cooking meat. The fire grows, and the despicable thing within its depths writhes and screams until he passes out. I watch as the fire consumes the body; I watch as it is mostly reduced to ash, only a few scorched bones remaining. I watch until the fire runs out of fuel, until it shrinks to only a few lingering sparks.


The whole time, Jordan has been near. I couldn’t see him the entire time, but I could feel him there. He didn’t need to persuade me anymore. He didn’t need to egg me on. He watched, getting as much pleasure out of the torture as I was. The connection between us is strong. I can feel what he feels, and vice versa.

He stands, now, across from the dying fire. He gives me a bright smile.

“Can you feel that, Jesse?”

I cant my head to the side.

“It’s like a weight lifting from your shoulders, right?”

I think about it, metaphorically. I think about how I feel, right now. I am covered in blood. The man who has caused me so much grief is dead. Jordan is beaming, across from me.

“None of it was ever your fault. It was all his. And now he’s dead. That man who sentenced you to a life time of silence is gone. There’s nothing you have to be afraid of anymore. See?”

There’s so much more that he’s not saying; so much more that cannot be expressed with the spoken word. Fear is relative. I realise now that fear is something that you can choose to embrace or to ignore. I could be afraid of those I love and respect, because they have the means to harm me. They have done so, and I won’t admit to them or anyone how much it actually hurts. I can choose to never allow anyone that close ever again.

The only person I’d ever allow to be so close, to know everything that goes on in my head, to know my every fear, my every weakness, is the boy standing across from me. But even as I watch, he begins to fade. I take a step forward; I circle the pyre and reach out. I don’t want him to go. He shakes his head.

“You need to let go of your past, brother. It’s the only way you can move forward.”

His voice is but a whisper; a memory, a dream that no longer exists. Where once he stood there is now only thin air. There is nothing. My brother is gone, completely, for always. And he’s not coming back.

I stumble backwards. The wall slams into my back. I slide down it, oblivious as protruding nails and broken brick scrapes and tears at the skin of my back. I land on my backside, arms resting on my knees. I bury my head in my hands and I cry. The tears are hot in my eyes; they burn the tear ducts that haven’t been used for years. A decade. More. I must have cried when my brother died. I must have. And that must have been the last time I had ever cried.

But I do so now, again losing track of time, hiding away from the rising and setting sun. Alone—the way I choose to be. Because no one, ever, must ever see me like this. I will not allow it.

I cry, and I sob, completely oblivious to the sound of my voice, echoing against the broken, cold walls of the decrepit, crumbling building around me.