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After elder brother came back
faking his death, the whole family went crazy
“My brother died in a plane crash, rushing
home for my birthday. Every year after, my
parents made me kneel at his grave and
apologize.
On my eighteenth birthday, I was being
followed. Terrified, I texted them. Mom called,
her voice laced with venom. ““You’re just
making excuses to get out of apologizing to
your brother! Liar! Why couldn’t it have been
you who died?!“”
The line went dead as the attacker’s boot
crushed my phone. He dismembered me,
scattering my remains across the city. My
father, the forensic pathologist assigned to
<
father, the forensic pathologist assigned to
the case, didn’t even recognize me.
Later, my brother returned, triumphant, with the woman he’d eloped with eight years
earlier. When they learned the mangled
remains were mine…they lost it.
Dad was called to the station before they’d
recovered all of me. A thunderstorm raged
outside. Officers and K–9 units scoured the
city. Detective Miller, soaked to the bone,
walked in carrying a bloodstained plastic bag.
“This one’s dry, David. See if you can get any prints.”
Dad nodded, opened the bag, and stared at
the contents: chunks of reddish–brown flesh,
neatly cubed like pieces of meat. His face
went white, then red. He sucked in a sharp
breath, his whole body trembling with barely
suppressed rage.
““This…this monster! These…these were cut
