Sometimes, when I’m caught in the rain and feel that familiar tug of mud beneath my boots, I think of my brother.
He was a good kid—the favourite son, though our Ma and Pa would never admit it. I knew it. Knew it from the way they looked at him. Knew it by the way folks used to ask me about him, like I was his keeper.
I could see it plain, once I was old enough to know what to look for.
At first, I didn’t mind. He was a quiet boy, sometimes a showoff, but always a good kid. When we were young, he’d run home from school on report card day just to be the first to show off. I wasn’t stupid, but I wasn’t perfect either. My brother, though—well, in Ma and Pa’s eyes, he damn well was.
You could say I was just average, which meant I was easy to ignore. Easy to pass over. But there’s only so much a fella can take. Only so much indifference a man can swallow before it sits in his throat and chokes him.
The last time I saw my brother, it was a downpour. My jacket was soaked through, rain running down my face. I nearly lost a boot in the mud while walking toward him. That feedlot had been churned up by us moving a thousand head of cattle up and down the line.
My little brother wasn’t so little no more.
It didn’t take long before our wrestling matches ended the same way—me with my head in his arms, crying uncle, him grinning and strong. Puberty did him many favours. Chiselled chin, soft eyes, solid build. He cleaned up in athletics, and by graduation, he was already bringing in good money working the feedlot his future father-in-law owned.
I did alright.
A few bad years of too much rain, then not enough, and whatever blessings I’d had ran dry. Ma and Pa were too old to help. Pensions only stretch so far out here, anyway. Wheat farming’s harder than butchering—there’s more to lose. Even after all that mad cow nonsense back in ‘03, my brother still came out on top.
So at my lowest, I turned to him for help.
All I needed was a small loan. Nothing that would dent his wallet—just enough for me to make it to next spring. But when I met him at the feedlot, he got all tight-lipped and penny-pinching. He said the pens needed new shelters. And that the meat packing plant had an inspection coming up. Apparently, his wife’s folks were working overtime to get ready.
Long story short, he wouldn’t. Said he couldn’t. Told me, between spits of chewing tobacco, as the eldest, I should be able to figure it out on my own.
When I heard that rejection, that awful denial of familial bonds, leave his mouth, standing there in the rain with a thousand head of cattle screaming behind him, I knew I’d always be second.
Second to our parents.
Second to his livestock.
Hell, second to God.
I can still remember how his black cowboy hat looked: soaked through, and heavy like a dark crown on his perfect head.
I can’t forget how it felt the first time I bashed his skull in with that cool, slick rock I’d found near the feedlot. The feeling of his head giving in beneath my hand. The bone fracturing around my fist. That sound. That moan—his and mine, both. Some strange chorus. When I raised my hand again, I swear he looked relieved. Or maybe I was seeing myself in those wide eyes.
When it rains, I think of my brother.
Sometimes, I miss him. Miss having someone to measure myself against. Someone to hate properly. To keep my jealous thoughts company.
He was my blood. Just as my blood was his.
Now, with these stained hands, I know—I am my brother’s keeper.
Thanks for reading! This short story was heavily inspired by the story of Cain and Abel from the book of Genesis. While I am not a Christian, nor much of a religious person at all, I did study religion during my time at university. During that time, I found that many of the stories in religious texts make for great sources of inspiration, especially for horror.
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This was so well written! I loved it. Quick, concise, and heart stopping. So good.
I felt his pain of being second and I knew whats coming! Classic Theo story ending. I love your villain characters. This also made me think about cat lady.