When my brother came back he wasn't the same. He didn't talk much, when he did he complained of body aches, throat aches, head aches… But he would never say what happened. The process repeated and each time my brother came back more sullen and lifeless.

It infuriated me. I had always been angry, angry about where we were, and what was happening. Going hungry, thirsty, being beat and left in the cold; it was all infuriating. But this… this was so much more. He had changed my brother, destroyed what he was. He didn't smile anymore, he didn't speak anymore, he couldn't play anymore, and it was the mans fault. He took my brother from me. And it filled me with rage.

When the man would go outside, I would scream, yell, swear, bark, trying to get to him. I had no dignity left, he took that, and I'd take his life as an animal would if it meant revenge. I'd scale the inside of the cage and squeeze my arms through the spaces, swinging claws and baring teeth, as my brother looked on at me with wide eyed shock.

The man seemed to take little mind of this, to my dismay. I hated him more for ignoring me, and with every new day I made my threats louder, wilder. I was slipping, I hardly felt like a person, and I didn't care, I would let it happen. I was never meant to be human.

I assume the man had heard enough; one morning he finally acknowledged me, approaching the side of the cage calmly, with a mug in his hand.

"Get the fuck down." He ordered, looking frustrated. "Tired'a your barkin." I didn't listen of course, I yelled over him, reaching for him. I'd claw his eyes out if I could just reach. I didn't.

Before I knew what had happened I felt a blinding, burning pain across my face, along my eyes. I screamed and dropped like a fly, falling hard on my back as I clutched my face. My brother screamed with me, not in pain, but in fear, and was at my side quickly.

I clawed at my face and the burning persisted, longer than I thought it should. My brother held down my hands, trying to keep me from furthering the damage and poured water over my face and eyes. Eventually the pain subsided, I opened my eyes and felt overwhelming relief when I could still see. The man had dropped and shattered the cup he had used to splash me with. My brother sat over me, looking horrified, tears streaming down his face.

"What is wrong with you…?" He said quietly. I didn't know.

He held me tightly to him for the first time since he had gone inside, and I realized it didn't matter. I was a disfigured monster, I had no humanity left. But it was okay. My brother and I were broken together, but we could manage like that.

After a silence, my brother stood again. I was afraid of what he may say, but he said nothing. Instead, he went to the edges of our cage, stretching his arm through the links and pulling in empty beer cans littered around. With a large rock, he flattened them, slowly, a tedious job but I watched the whole thing as he crushed and shaped the aluminum. Then, he fitted it over my face, careful as to not cut me or hurt my fresh burns. The metal mask could hide most of my burns which was… a relief; I didn't want him or anyone else to see them. They were mine, and no one elses to see.

I waited until my brother slept. The night was cold; I knew it would rain that and we would sleep through it as best we could through the wet and the wind. But my rage was still intense, I was desperate, mindless. Craving revenge. And so I waited, and while my brother slept I crept to the side of the cage.

At first I simply yanked on the lock, of course to no avail. The lock was rusted and shoddy but the pulling alone would do nothing. I tried using the shattered pieces of mug, the one used to disfigure me. But the bits weren't strong enough.

In the end it was a bone. An animal bone I had scavenged from one of our meals and stashed in dirt. I jammed a sharp end into the opening, forcing until the lock gave out and fell away into my palm.

I sat with the lock in my hand for what felt like hours. The door was open just a few inches before me. But open. Not open to let the bad in… but to let me and my brother out. But I had to act first. I pulled the bone from the lock and dropped the rusty piece to the ground.

Inside the house was warm. It smelled terrible, like bitter smoke and something rotting. The paneled walls inside were lined with animal heads mounted on ornate plaques. In glass cases sat guns and knives and bones and other strange treasures I couldn't identify. Quietly I lifted the top of the case. Any of these would serve me better than the bone I already had.

A gun would kill too quickly, and I wouldn't know how to use any of them anyways. Instead I chose a knife, serrated. I ran my thumb across it, drawing blood with no struggle. Good.

I crept into the mans room, silent as a ghost. As I hovered over his bed, I realized I had run this scene through my head one thousand times before. But it was different. I thought my heart would be pounding in my ears, I thought my hands would shake. I thought there would be struggle. Instead I felt nothing. No fear, no hesitation. Because I had every reason, every right to kill this man. For what he had done.

For my brother.

I don't know how many times the knife plunged his flesh. After the first stab he let out a scream, struggling, fighting me for the knife, but he was losing blood quickly and was disoriented, drunken. The thrusts went in clean like butter, and the knife dragged and tore as it pulled back out. He had fallen still long before I stopped, his body mutilated nearly beyond recognition. The man was dead, and as the realization set in a feeling of relief crashed over me. I felt euphoric.

It was over, all over. The man was dead, my brother who raised me would have the freedom he deserved. We could leave, we could have food, and beds. It would be okay now.

When I went back to wake my brother it was raining. He shook in the cold, already dripping wet.

"Brother." I spoke, setting a bloodstained hand on his shoulder. "Brother. Wake up."

When he looked at me he seemed terrified, worried about all the blood. I must have been a sight; a blood and rain-soaked masked figure in the night. He stared for a moment, and when he found I was unharmed, his look became quizzical.

I merely nodded, and he understood. Quickly he got to his feet, and together we went back inside.

The first thing we did was scope out the house. We showered, and changed into fresh clothes, then ate our fill of what was in the fridge. For the first time my brother in a long time my brother smiled, and we laughed and relaxed inside, dry, warm, and safe. We stayed in a spare bed in a side room, piled with as many blankets and pillows as we could find, and we slept out the rainy night in a pile.

The next morning we ate once more, and discussed what we would do. Neither of us wanted to stay, nor felt like we could. This place was cursed with years of torment and evil, and neither of us felt it was right to remain. And anyways, we didn't want to deal with the dead body in the master bedroom.

We packed knives, guns, food, and clothes into a large back pack, and blankets and water in another. We talked briefly over where to go, and chose to simply follow the road as far as we could.

And so, we did. And as we walked from our prison, we did not look back. Not even once.