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Malcolm walked out of sickbay, his eyes nervously scanning the area ahead of him. The throbbing pain in his neck was an ever present reminder that his older brother was trying to kill him, well not kill him but more mess with his mind like he'd been so good at when they were younger.
He stepped into the turbo-lift hesitantly, his muscles tensed up as the door closed.
'BOO!'
Malcolm jumped a mile as his brothers laughing face appeared.
'Jumpy aren't we?' said Matthew grinning.
Malcolm said nothing, praying for the turbo-lift doors to open.
'You owe me,' Matthew stated.
Malcolm looked up in surprise.
'The game is still on-you owe me, I won,' he said simply.
When Malcolm didn't give the desired reply, Matthew grabbed his throat once more and shoved him up against the door.
'Don't be stupid Mally,' he said dangerously. 'You know what to say-you surely can't have forgotten the rules of play already?'
Malcolm closed his eyes.
"British Bulldog," He whispered, hating himself even as he said in.
'Commence round two!' Matthew exclaimed happily, he turned and faded out.
Leaning heavily against the door, he fell out landing painfully on his back. He scrambled quickly to his feet, eternally thankful that no one had been around to see him fall.
He walked down the corridor and halted in front of his quarters. Making a split second decision he turned on his heel and made his way down to the mess hall.
The mess hall was packed with crew eating lunch but the second Malcolm walked in he could feel their gaze rest on him, more so on his bruised neck. He self consciously lowered his head slightly to hide it, grabbed the nearest meal and a cup of tea before going to sit down on the only empty table.
He stared at his food not really knowing why he had even picked anything up, he wasn't hungry, he was just using the mess hall as an excuse not to go back to his quarters..................not to be alone.
"Hey Malcolm."
Malcolm head snapped up and he winced as pain shot through his neck.
Trip stared back with concern and sat down.
"Looks painful," he commented. "You know who did it?"
"It looks worse than it is," Malcolm replied, sipping his tea.
"Who did it?" Trip repeated, giving his friend a searching look.
Malcolm didn't reply, concentrating hard on the swirling liquid inside his cup.
How can I tell him my brother that has been dead for over 12 years has suddenly come back to life, starting a game he used to play with me in order to destroy me?
Malcolm took a deep breath and looked up.
"Have you ever heard of a game called British Bulldog?" he asked finally.
Trip's expression changed to one of confusion, this clearly was not the answer he was expecting. He frowned in concentration for a moment, thinking hard. He shook his head and waited for an explanation.
"It's a game with three stages," Malcolm began hesitantly; he stared back down at his cup again.
"And?" Trip prompted, after a few minutes of silence.
Malcolm jerked up from his trance and blinked.
"It doesn't matter," he said backtracking quickly.
Trip opened his mouth to say something but Malcolm shoved his chair back and fled the room attracting the attention of everyone else.
Once back in his quarters he sat on his bed hugging his knees to him, his eyes flicking round the room trying to locate his brother. He was alone the one thing he'd been trying to avoid, he was now a prime target for Matthew.
He remembered back to when they were younger, he and Matthew had been close- till Maddie was born, then Matthews's jealousy had surfaced. Malcolm had protected his baby sister thus taking the brunt of his brother's annoyance. Then as the years went by they'd simply drifted apart as Matthew became more and more violent. Stuart Reed had refused to acknowledge this; Matthew had always been the favourite son whilst Malcolm watched on in the background knowing he was the eternal disappointment.
Yet Matthew still hated his brother, he created a new game a version of British Bulldog, one that involved causing Malcolm as much pain as physically possible. Malcolm shuddered as he remembered the first time Matthew had 'played' that game. He'd ended up in hospital, his father said He'd been mugged, it was then that Malcolm lost faith in his parents completely. He retreated more and more into his shell, preferring to write his poetry and to stay away from Matthew.
Upon finding his poetry his disgusted father classed him as mentally unstable and was all but prepared to send him off to the nut house and disown him forever till His mother in one of her rare moments stood up for her son.
Of course then, unexpectedly Matthew committed suicide on Malcolm's 15th birthday with one of Malcolm's poems by his side. Naturally his father assumed that Malcolm had killed Matthew despite the fact Malcolm had been at school when it happened.
Malcolm shook his thoughts as the tap in the bathroom started dripping. Gingerly he stood up and slowly walked into the bathroom, his muscles tensing up and his heart pounding. He reached out and turned it off before returning quickly back to his bed.
A sudden noise attracted his attention..................
0000 Review if ya would please! 000000
Malcolm walked out of sickbay, his eyes nervously scanning the area ahead of him. The throbbing pain in his neck was an ever present reminder that his older brother was trying to kill him, well not kill him but more mess with his mind like he'd been so good at when they were younger.
He stepped into the turbo-lift hesitantly, his muscles tensed up as the door closed.
'BOO!'
Malcolm jumped a mile as his brothers laughing face appeared.
'Jumpy aren't we?' said Matthew grinning.
Malcolm said nothing, praying for the turbo-lift doors to open.
'You owe me,' Matthew stated.
Malcolm looked up in surprise.
'The game is still on-you owe me, I won,' he said simply.
When Malcolm didn't give the desired reply, Matthew grabbed his throat once more and shoved him up against the door.
'Don't be stupid Mally,' he said dangerously. 'You know what to say-you surely can't have forgotten the rules of play already?'
Malcolm closed his eyes.
"British Bulldog," He whispered, hating himself even as he said in.
'Commence round two!' Matthew exclaimed happily, he turned and faded out.
Leaning heavily against the door, he fell out landing painfully on his back. He scrambled quickly to his feet, eternally thankful that no one had been around to see him fall.
He walked down the corridor and halted in front of his quarters. Making a split second decision he turned on his heel and made his way down to the mess hall.
The mess hall was packed with crew eating lunch but the second Malcolm walked in he could feel their gaze rest on him, more so on his bruised neck. He self consciously lowered his head slightly to hide it, grabbed the nearest meal and a cup of tea before going to sit down on the only empty table.
He stared at his food not really knowing why he had even picked anything up, he wasn't hungry, he was just using the mess hall as an excuse not to go back to his quarters..................not to be alone.
"Hey Malcolm."
Malcolm head snapped up and he winced as pain shot through his neck.
Trip stared back with concern and sat down.
"Looks painful," he commented. "You know who did it?"
"It looks worse than it is," Malcolm replied, sipping his tea.
"Who did it?" Trip repeated, giving his friend a searching look.
Malcolm didn't reply, concentrating hard on the swirling liquid inside his cup.
How can I tell him my brother that has been dead for over 12 years has suddenly come back to life, starting a game he used to play with me in order to destroy me?
Malcolm took a deep breath and looked up.
"Have you ever heard of a game called British Bulldog?" he asked finally.
Trip's expression changed to one of confusion, this clearly was not the answer he was expecting. He frowned in concentration for a moment, thinking hard. He shook his head and waited for an explanation.
"It's a game with three stages," Malcolm began hesitantly; he stared back down at his cup again.
"And?" Trip prompted, after a few minutes of silence.
Malcolm jerked up from his trance and blinked.
"It doesn't matter," he said backtracking quickly.
Trip opened his mouth to say something but Malcolm shoved his chair back and fled the room attracting the attention of everyone else.
Once back in his quarters he sat on his bed hugging his knees to him, his eyes flicking round the room trying to locate his brother. He was alone the one thing he'd been trying to avoid, he was now a prime target for Matthew.
He remembered back to when they were younger, he and Matthew had been close- till Maddie was born, then Matthews's jealousy had surfaced. Malcolm had protected his baby sister thus taking the brunt of his brother's annoyance. Then as the years went by they'd simply drifted apart as Matthew became more and more violent. Stuart Reed had refused to acknowledge this; Matthew had always been the favourite son whilst Malcolm watched on in the background knowing he was the eternal disappointment.
Yet Matthew still hated his brother, he created a new game a version of British Bulldog, one that involved causing Malcolm as much pain as physically possible. Malcolm shuddered as he remembered the first time Matthew had 'played' that game. He'd ended up in hospital, his father said He'd been mugged, it was then that Malcolm lost faith in his parents completely. He retreated more and more into his shell, preferring to write his poetry and to stay away from Matthew.
Upon finding his poetry his disgusted father classed him as mentally unstable and was all but prepared to send him off to the nut house and disown him forever till His mother in one of her rare moments stood up for her son.
Of course then, unexpectedly Matthew committed suicide on Malcolm's 15th birthday with one of Malcolm's poems by his side. Naturally his father assumed that Malcolm had killed Matthew despite the fact Malcolm had been at school when it happened.
Malcolm shook his thoughts as the tap in the bathroom started dripping. Gingerly he stood up and slowly walked into the bathroom, his muscles tensing up and his heart pounding. He reached out and turned it off before returning quickly back to his bed.
A sudden noise attracted his attention..................
0000 Review if ya would please! 000000