I Ate My Brother
Sep 20 ● 2 min read ●
I ate my brother. I was always fond of him, looked up to him. He was older than me. I measured myself against him. We stood back to back. At first I only came up to his shoulder, and then I realised in that instant we’d fused.
It wasn’t easy, he had to throw a coat over me so he could play with his friends. We’d bike off to the dark places children play. I’d be quiet so as not to cramp his style.
Then I began to grow and one morning, instead of him throwing a coat over me, I threw a coat over him and walked out the door.
I’d hear his voice in my ear sometimes. At first he wasn’t impressed but he soon realised it was just easier this way, with me taking the lead. I was good at it.
As the years passed he became the size of a monkey on my back, an endearing small lump, a strange surprise revealed to lovers. By the time I’d married and started having children he was the size of a pygmy marmoset.
The baby liked to play with him but eventually he became nothing but a calcified lump. A recent X-ray revealed three teeth and a shadow of fur.
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