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Yes, all right?

Fuck it.

There was a life before Jonathon… ate.

Don’t give me that – I’ve fucking told you about it before.   Not my fault if you weren’t bright enough to pick up on it.

I had a brother.


Being old is weird.   Not ‘old’ like your level of old – the octogenarian with the twenty-six grandkids, who’s hard of hearing and has a distinct fondness for sugary biscuits.

Fuck no.

Old like me.

Memories, like everything else with us, are super-fuelled.   I can remember a fucking lot, and it’s vivid.   But I don’t come with a remote – can’t rewind and replay, or any of that kind of shit.   Memories can still be patchy – there’s gaps big enough to bury bodies under and lose sight of faces in.   And they fade too.   Five hundred years of experiences, and your brain has to start getting picky about what it retains.


But my brother, I remember.

You see – you always remember that time when a family member  tried to kill you.

And you always remember your first kill.





  1. Damn fine writing! Engrossing, original & entrancing. A must read that you crave as much as air itself!!!

    • or, as it were, as much as blood itself. air being rather irrelevant in this case.

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