I Killed My Own Brother


short stories…
My hands are bloodstained. And no matter how hard I tried to wash or scrape it off my hands, it was always there to remind me of what I’d done, what a monster I am.

I’m a bad person, a sinner. And the most heinous sinner of all. An actual physical embodiment of hell. A murderer who assassinated his brother. A bearer of the mark of Cain. But, before you start pointing fingers or giving me nasty eyes, I think you should listen to me out.

You’ve probably heard of troops giving their friends the boot on the battlefield. And may occasionally think, “Well, that’s a reasonable thing to do.”

In my case, I believe it is likewise appropriate to murder my brother. And I pray that God, in his infinite mercy, will forgive my soul.

My brother Anthony had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at the age of 42. And, as is common in Alzheimer’s instances, his memory was initially compromised. And as time passed, his thinking got confused, as did his speech and other aspects of human capability.

His ailments deteriorate at an unfathomable rate, even for top-tier doctors and clinicians. And with it, his entire world came crashing down around him. He lost practically everything, including his wife, children, and property. As if it weren’t enough, we both lost our mothers during those difficult times.

He was isolated from society owing to his weakness, and he begged and prayed for his death, which never came. He was forced to undertake the risky move since he had no other options.

Other short stories: The Fox And The Crow Story. A Lesson For Everyone

He resorted to being airlifted from the untamed west to my side in Washington, D.C., where his final request would be accomplished. And when he brought up the concept of voluntary euthanasia to me, I freaked, screaming at the mouth and telling him right to his face that there’s no way in hell I’d agree to it.

That was probably expected of any reasonable brother. But, after considerable thought, and knowing that he had traveled from the deep West to Washington, where it was allowed to carry out assisted suicide, I later agreed to this. I was aware that it was insane. But I don’t have much of a say in the matter.

I consented to my brother’s mercy killing at Washington General. They dubbed it “euthanasia.” But I knew it was more than that deep down. And I can’t get the memory of being a part of the orgy ordeal out of my head.

I can’t shake the sense of remorse that has now enveloped my psyche. And I don’t think I could ever forgive myself. So, if you must, blame me. Let me get all the dAmnAtion if you cast the stone. I guess I’m deserving of it all, But if you where in my shoes, what will you do?


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