1. Spec-fucking-tacular

Am I holding onto something I should have given up decades ago?

This is the question I ask myself as I methodically use my thumb to flip open the top of the old vintage lighter in my hand, and then, with a quick twist and flick of my wrist, I snap it close. I perform this mindless task over and over. This metronome is the soundtrack playing while I anxiously await the one person who could grant me peace of mind.

Rays from the setting sun do their best to make their way through the obstruction of boarded-up windows, casting an array of shapes and movements. It"s the only light illuminating the room. Old wallpaper hangs in dirty curtains from the bedroom walls around me, but I pay it no mind as I lean against it. I grew up in this hotel. When we were kids, this was our playground. Hours were spent playing hide and go seek in the vacant rooms. It used to be full of life and laughter. Now, the only things that reside here are the guests lingering in the hallways, not yet realizing they are no longer members of this living realm. When my mother owned this place, she took great pride in running it. Then I found her in a bathtub filled with her own blood.

The hallway is filled with the eerie sound of floorboards creaking, their echoes bouncing off the empty walls. Within a matter of seconds, I'm face to face with the man who shares my genetics but not my life.

"Jax," Jeremy exasperates, shoulders dropping. "Why did you want to meet here?"

The stark white lab coat he's wearing from work sticks out like a sore thumb in this dark and dingy atmosphere. His pristine ensemble is at complete odds with our surroundings, whereas I, with my holy jeans, faded tee, and worn black leather jacket, fit right in.

Shoving the silver vintage lighter in my pocket, I shrug. "Seemed like as good a place as any to do business."

This is the room where our brotherly bond died. The very room where I discovered our mother bathing in a crimson pool.

He shakes his head, looking down at the nicked wooden slates beneath his shiny brown loafers. The realization of choosing this place over any other is more than likely hitting him. It never affected him as it did me. My life changed after that day, and my trust, especially in regard to family, became razor-thin.

"I don't have it," he admits, exasperated.

"What do you mean you don't have it?" I grit my teeth, resisting the urge to raise my voice. "You know I need those prescriptions. It's the only way to silence the past."

"Those memories you think you have aren't real. Our father would have never hurt Mom. No. You need them for something else. You're just not telling me the truth." He peers at me with an unwelcome sympathy plaguing his eyes. "You could have done so much more with your life if you were strong enough to let this go."

"Strong enough? Do you think I'm weak?" I demand. The gun in my hand is steady as I pull it from my pocket and point it at his head. His eyes widen with shock.

"That's…that's not what I said," he raises his hands in defense. "You're taking my words out of context. I meant if you would have asked for help, you wouldn't need drugs if you turned your life around."

Again, with his gaslighting, telling me what I saw wasn't real. That the memories haunting me are all a figment of my nightmarish imagination. I've had to deal with this ever since he began giving in to our father's every demand and wanted to be the better son. We used to be best friends, but slowly, our bond decreased as his and our father's amplified. He never listens to me, and maybe he doesn't believe our father was capable of such evil.

The volcano in my chest erupts, spilling over, exploding outwardly into a rage that sizzles over my flesh. On Instinct, I quickly eliminate the short distance between us and rush him. His eyes widen in shock. I'm assuming he didn't expect me to react this way to his comment. Before he can cower and hide, I push him down on his ass. He lands with a heavy thud upon the old wooden boards, and I squat to get on his level, pressing the barrel to his temple. His head tilts to the side as if trying to escape. There's no chance of that happening. I'll make sure I'm the only thing he can see.

I grab a fistful of his shirt collar, bringing him closer to me, pressing my nose against his. There's a crunch of cartilage from the force. I'm numb from rage and have no idea whether it's his nose breaking or mine. Regardless, the sound brings me an iota of satisfaction. His problem is that it's not enough to let him off the hook. I've dealt with his constant lecturing and demeaning attitude for years. My little display of dominance doesn't come close to the show he's about to get.

Sitting back on my haunches, the crimson stream trailing down his upper lip shows I won that little battle. He whimpers at the minuscule amount of pain, the big fucking baby. His whining means nothing to me. This is a mere drop in the bucket compared to what I have in store for him. I won't stop until I've had my fill. Tonight, he will finally pay.

I stand, looking down my nose at him. "Undress," I command. He just stares at me with eyes the same shade of green as mine, not moving. "Now!" I roar. That wakes him from his stupor and has him scurrying to his feet.

He undresses quickly at gunpoint. When he stumbles to remove his pants, a slight chuckle leaves my lips. "It's so nice to see you flustered. Your righteous attitude is finally cracking."

Positioned in his bent form, he peers up at me through his lashes. "You've changed. When did you become so cold?"

I've become cold? If he thinks I'm being cold, then that's saying something, considering our father raised him.

Completely naked, he stands in the middle of the dilapidated hotel room. He crosses his tattooed arms over his chest as he shakes slightly from the arid night breeze. I'm not sure if he's figured out his pissant attitude doesn't work anymore or if he's actually trying to gain some semblance of commiseration from me. At this point, I couldn't care less. He's had years of chances to believe me. To understand me.

"Get in the closet," I command, gesturing with the gun.

"What?" He asks, brows bunching in confusion and fake innocence.

"I said get. In. The. Fucking. Closet," I bellow, jerking my weapon in the direction I want him to go.

I gave up a long time ago to try and garner his sympathy. Now, I only want to make him feel the way I do.

The door opens with a loud squeak. Hand on the knob, he surveys what awaits him, and a muscle ticks in his jaw. "You have got to be fucking kidding me."

I pull the hammer back on the pistol and almost get hard at my wordless threat.

He flinches at the metallic noise.

I'm definitely hard.

Once he steps into the small closet, I instruct him to stand on the old wooden chair and place the premade noose over his head. He weaves his fingers between his neck and the rope as if preparing for me to kick the chair out from under him at any moment. It's too bad for him that I have more humiliating endeavors in store.

"Now, grab your cock. Show me how I looked to you," I demand, eager to see him debased and groveling at my feet.

"No, no." His words come out shaky.

"Do it," I seethe, knocking the pistol's barrel against a chair spindle in impatience. "Grab your fucking cock and show me how much more worthless I am than you."

He shakes his head. His once perfect, pristine hair that was slicked back is now hanging in his face. Blonde, highlighted pieces are clumped and caked together by gel, along with his normal dark brown hair. They cling to his forehead as he denies my request. I grab the end of the rope, undoing its slipknot, and cinch the noose tighter around his throat. He coughs as his carotid arteries begin collapsing under the pressure, leaving no room for his fingers to save him from the impending strangulation. He must correctly decipher my level of seriousness because he removes his hands from his neck and then wraps one of them around his cock. The results of my instructed manipulations are quick. His length hardens in his grip with every breath he struggles to take. The decreased amount of oxygen traveling to his brain stimulates him in ways he didn't anticipate.

Our father-dearest put me in a similar position when he caught me as a child. It's easy to judge someone until you have to experience it yourself. I can't help it. I know I must look like a madman, but I laugh maniacally at his cock, knowing it's killing him that part of him is enjoying this. His dick is nearly identical to mine. It's only missing my two Richard piercings. He's glaring at me when I meet his eyes. I just shrug. "You see? Rock bottom is never that far. All I needed from you was to believe me!" My anger breaks free at the end.

I blink.

And blink again.

Woopsie!Apparently, my emotions are getting the best of me. With my non-gun-holding hand, I wipe at the spittle forming in the corners of my mouth. I will not give in to my emotions like I've done time and time again. I will not be swayed by what's coming next.

And what's coming next is going to be spec-fucking-tacular.

His hand moves slowly over his shaft. His face is almost purple, and the vein in his forehead protrudes, starving for the oxygen it's being deprived of. I enjoy the way his shoulders shake with the movement as if the control he held onto so tightly for so long is finally being ripped from him and given to me.

His breaths come in short pants as he draws closer to his release, so I grab hold of the rope, causing it to tighten on his neck. A strangled noise emanates from his vocal cords.

"Will you fuck me over again?" I ask him. My actions are harsh, but my voice is as smooth as the blade of a knife, and it cuts just as deeply.

My brother's lips take on a bluish hue as I stand here and watch. Red spiderwebs crawl through the whites of his eyes as blood vessels burst. Now I know what I looked like in this state. I'm glad it's not me this time, though.

He vigorously tries to shake his head, whimpering, "Please, brother…." The inhale he draws in is ragged and comes out as a whistle on the exhale. "We can… work… this… out…"

This time when I blink, I realize I don't give a fuck what he says. It's too little too late. I'm dead inside, and his pleas fall on unwilling ears. I reach up, placing my index finger over his mouth, pressing down harder than I should, causing his lips to bunch on one side. "Shh, I know, I know. You won't fuck me over again," I whisper. "Because I won't give you the chance. You'll be dead, along with my last thread of humanity. I had higher hopes for you than our father." With that, I kick the chair out from under his feet, letting go of years of torment and betrayal.

His body jerks, spilling spunk onto the dilapidated wood floor while his fingers remain tightly wrapped around his shaft. He convulses a few times like a fish out of water before he finally stills, resigning to the fate I have decided for him. My brother is finally dead.

I stare, almost trance-like, at the swinging pendulum that once housed my brother's life. The only noise comes from the distant traffic and the noose rubbing against the exposed beam. All the superfluous noises fade away, making the tension in my shoulders the loudest entity of all. I roll them back, shrugging off years of disappointment and judgment, standing taller.

What do I do from here? My haze of anger didn't allow me to see past this point in my plan. I scratch my temple with the barrel of the gun as I scan my surroundings, contemplating my next move.

My gaze halts on the stark contrast in the room. Jeremy's clothes lay discarded in the middle of the floor. I hadn't realized my fuckface brother had haphazardly folded them and laid them on top of his shoes so they wouldn't get soiled. It's hard to hold back my chuckle. I wonder if he would have done that if he knew what I had in store for him. I snatch them and descend the four flights of stairs to the vacant parking lot. Well, it's vacant except for his car since I had one of my drug dealers drop me off.

The invasive weeds growing through the cracks of the decaying black asphalt grab at my ankles as I easily find the key fob in the lab coat. Studying it in my hand, I arrive at the driver's side door.

"Are you kidding me? I have to open the door myself. Where's the damn button for that? I feel like a fucking heathen having to do manual labor." I imagine that's something my brother would have said to the salesman when he inspected this ride. Such a pompous ass.

My glee is hard to hide as I fold myself into the dark interior. "Ahhh, now this is living," I hum, running my hands over the leather steering wheel. The gleaming, black Porsche purrs to life, and the vibration comes over me in a wave, engulfing all my senses. I take a moment, just enjoying this new sensation. "Okay, time to do my due diligence and cover my ass."

I trade my gun for the burner phone nestled in the pocket, hiding in the lining of my leather jacket. Then I withdraw a little black box from a different pocket, push one of its tiny buttons, and hold it against my lips. Hitting the speaker icon, I dial the number and relax into the comfortable leather seat. "9-1-1. What's your emergency?" the phone operator asks in her robotic tone.

"Oh my god. Oh my god. Oh my god," I cry, my voice modular device giving me the high pitch of a frantic woman. "He... this man. I…" I stop my stuttering, then proceed with incoherent gibberish peppered with wailing and hyperventilating.

Hot damn, I should get a Grammy for this performance.

Wait, is the Grammy Award for acting or singing? Fuck it, I'm so good it doesn't matter what the award is for. They'll give it to me anyway.

"Calm down, ma'am. Where are you?"

"The old haunted hotel in the industrial park. This, this man. He abducted me and…" I pause to throw in a few hiccups. Oscar-winning hiccups.

"Are you safe?" The woman on the other end breaks through her cold tone with a bit more empathy.

"Yes, but this man. He made me watch him do things to himself. But," I boo-hoo and sob heavily. "I escaped… but… but… I think he's dead." Then I jam my finger on the End Call button before she can ask any more questions.

Forget those acting awards. I'm going for the Nobel Peace Prize.

Thrusting the car into drive, gravel and dust kick up in my wake, showering the car's exterior with tiny pings. Once I'm far enough away, I lift my gaze to the rearview mirror. The building that once housed so much life is now the tomb that contains the people I once called my family. A bittersweet smile spreads across my face as I ride into the city.