Dingy kitchen. Faded wallpaper depicting marigolds. Drawers creaking on tired hinges. Nurse of the month awarded to a certain Eleanor Morgan from years past dangled from the wall, dog-eared corners singed with soot. Yellowed stains of old leaks. Never fixed.

An immaculate floor, its waxen semblance reminiscent of that of a surgery room. The once patterned tiles now faded into alabaster, for a speck of dust on the sacred linoleum might as well be a thorn in Mrs. Morgan’s keen eyes. Its surface sleek with polish through years of obsessive scrubbing at the withered hands of the same individual. Bare light bulb dangling from the ceiling. White, blinding glow. The kind clinical institutions preferred, its brilliant beams all over the room.

* * *

Drip, drop, the dark red liquid spilled across the pearl white tiles.

* * *

“You stupid little brat, you good for nothing. You are just trouble. Why can’t you be more like your brother?” Mrs. Morgan yelled, words of exasperation sputtered out of her thin bloodless lips like effluent out of a rusty pipe. Her arms gesticulating frantically, anger apparent on her crimson countenance. Salty tears trickling down his jowl, Henry gaped at Dexter, oily fries slipping from his ketchup stained fingers onto the high chair. Mrs. Morgan spat out her grievances, her callused hands leaving red welts on Henry’s cheek. Dexter peered at Henry, then resumed chewing his fries.

* * *

Dexter contemplated his brother’s features, pinkish blush on cheeks, red lips and bulging eyes. For a split second, he fancied he was staring at his reflection. They were identical. Does this mean he was a good for nothing, too?

* * *

Drip, drop, the dark red liquid spilled across the pearl white tiles.

* * *

“Who did it?” An infuriated shriek pierced the thin plaster walls of the Morgan House. Two children, barely seven, dashed into the kitchen. Matted blond hair, pinkish blush on cheeks, bulging blue eyes. One slumped against the doorway, disinfectant singing his nostrils, not blinking, not flinching, an eerie apprehension in his eyes. The other twin scurried in, finger directed towards the shattered bottle of red ink upon of the once pristine kitchen floor.

“Step back, you burdensome swine!” Mrs. Morgan snapped at the likeness which one called Henry, her purple protruding veins now strikingly discernible against her chalky complexion, “I know you did it. Your brother is not such an incorrigible nuisance.”

* * *

Dexter eyed the outline of his brother, beholding his mirror-image, same bony joints, sickly gaunt frame. Curled up in a fetal position, clasping his knees, his twin cried. Muffled sobs shook his skeletal figure. Dexter gently wrapped his arms around Henry, wiping away wet tracks from Henry’s cheeks and whispered, his heart heavy with guilt : “Don’t cry, because we’re really the same.”

* * *

Drip, drop, the dark red liquid spilled across the pearl white tiles.

* * *

Dexter’s eyes snapped open, sweat glistening on his forehead. Vaguely, he remembered a yelp of horror. It came from the kitchen, his mother’s holy ground. A faint grin flitted across his milky lips. Him and his doppelganger, now 17, scurried down the stairs. The loose, wood panels screeched and screamed, rats came to his mind, he had just dreamed of a rat, hadn’t he?

They had barely reached the that Mrs. Morgan grabbed Henry by the arm, her twig-like fingers clenching on his pale arm, disgust emanating from her eyes. “You ungrateful little brute! You…”

The source of her anger, a decapitated rat, bathing in a pool of its own blood lay on the pearly white floor. It’s head was twisted backwards at an unnatural angle, even in the stillness of death, it bared its teeth.

“This is it! You are going away for good!”
Mrs. Morgan had faith in the system. Everything will be okay, as long as you follow the system, whether it was institutional or clinical. But this Henry…
So it was decide, Henry was going to be institutionalized. Cruelty to animals, disruptive personality. Mrs. Morgan was no fool, this was the making of a sociopath, it needed help.

* * *

That night, Dexter just held Henry. Tight, so tight that he could hardly breath, not wanting to let Henry go.
Clutching Henry from behind, with Henry’s neck in the crook of his elbow.

Henry was kind, nice. Too nice for his own good. Always looking out for others. His tender heart was the only thing that Dexter held onto against the rising tide, his grip on humanity, his lifeline to sanity. How could mother possibly think him capable of the vile act of killing another living thing? Dexter closed his eyes, playing through his mind, the rat’s desperate squeals. For it must have squealed. He tightened his grip, muscles tense. The rat yelled and screamed, kicking him in the shin. But Dexter held on, flexing his muscles, the cry slowly died away. Such futile resistance, until snap. Dexter relaxed and laid back with a sigh. His work was almost done.

* * *

Drip, drop, the dark red liquid spilled across the pearl white tiles

* * *

The scream persisted as Dexter nonchalantly descended the stairs. It was morning, to the kitchen now.

His mother was on her knees, revulsion contorting her aged complexion, her eyes glued to the sight of his brother’s head, neatly placed in the center of the kitchen floor. Her voice rose like a tide, then slowly, like a tired car engine, raspy and dry, faded away, her eyes closed. When she opened them again, they were red with anger.

“Henry! You bastard, you useless trash, you never do anything except make a mess!” Grabbing a rag in her limp hand, the blood soaking through her shirt, she started wiping the floor. The smell of bleach singed Dexter’s nostrils.

Dexter grinned in satisfaction, now he was free. Swinging his arms, he walked out of that creaky front door