Dear brother,

I remember those nights when I beat you bloody and blue. You would cry and sniffle and shake, but after it was all done, you’d always cuddle up to my back and quiver from cold. I never offered you a bit of blanket, and you never used the one you had on your own bed.

Was it out of fear? Pity? Did you feel sorry for me? Hm? Or were you just clinging to the single, unwinding thread of a family we had?

I think that was it.

I pity you, brother. I pity the fact you were that pathetically desperate for any sort of shade of affection that you bent so easily to my will. Maybe under different circumstances I would’ve played the role of the good brother who protected you and held you up when you were falling, but you were just so weak I would have been a great fool to let the opportunity slip past.

I write you now to let you know my only regret with leaving you to die alone in the sand is the fact I didn’t drag it out longer

Forever your better half,

Vincent.