Thank you for reviews, DarkKaneanite and Souless666. Thanks also to those who have added me on alert or favs: 555LordBacon666, Dark Kaneanite, Mithrandir7897, Anne Ominous, Captain's doxy, Souless666, and nothingsnobody. Please let me know what you think of the story so far, I really do appreciate the reviews whether they are positive or negative, the positive give me encouragement to keep on going and the negative help me push myself to write better so keep 'em comin'! I love how Kane speaks. I wonder if Glen Jacobs writes any of his own stuff, I know he has a degree in English. I hope that throughout the story I can get the Kane character across pretty well, I like him so much I want to try and capture him as best I can!

Chapter 3

The older boy looks down at me as I lay on the ground. I've been sprawled out in the grass staring up at the clouds for sometime now, minutes, hours, half the day, I'm not really sure. Often time eludes me or it dances around my head in circles, sometimes it slows to a mind-numbing crawl, it just depends. I think I see and feel things different from others…he tells me that sometimes. Right now he's aggravating me to no end. He bends over me and blocks my view of the cloud that looks like a dragon. His dark auburn hair flops down over his forehead like a Beatles haircut. I hate those guys, they're too happy-sappy and that's not how life is all the time. It's not lovely and fun and romantic. I glare at him as once again he distracts me from my thoughts as he waves his hand in front of my face and smiles down at me.

"Get up Red!"

It's my nickname, most people think it's because of my hair but that's not the real reason. I tend to have a short temper and so people started to pick up on the warning signs of when I'm going to snap. "He's seeing red again" and born from that is my nickname. Sometimes they add the prefix 'Big' to my nickname because I am kind of big for my age, but usually it's just Red. The boy who now stands over me has a nickname too. Our parents own a funeral home which doubles as our house. It's a huge old Victorian with a wrap-round porch and creepy, dark, windows that look like eyeholes in an enormous empty skull. I guess on really humid days the neighbors can smell the stench of formaldehyde drifting around on the tepid air, but I never notice it anymore. It's something I've grown accustomed to. My brother tends to be somber and leans somewhat towards darker things. Kid's sometimes called him "The Undertaker's Kid" or more often just "The Undertaker". One year he dressed up like an old fashioned undertaker for Halloween and that kind of cemented the name. He's ten now and they still call him by that nick-name. I think he kind of likes it. As for me, I don't really care what they call me as long as they say it with a little fear in their voice.

"Come on Big Red!" He kicks me playfully in the ribs. I get up and flash him a grimace before I tackle him to the ground, partly out of playfulness and partly because he really grates on my nerves. Even though we are brothers and not very far apart in age we tend to be at odds most times. He likes to think he's the boss because he's older. He likes to try to pick on me when I'm having a moment of weakness, but otherwise I can give him a close battle and once in a while I even come out on top and that really makes him go into a pout. We wrestle around for a while and he gains the upper hand, as he usually does, which makes me even more peeved.

He finally lets me up. I lock my brown eyes with his green ones and send him daggers that I will to stab him a million times until he's a pile of breathless goo.

"I win, what does that make it?" He looks up at the sky. His chin rests on his hand as though thinking. "About a bazillion to zero?"

"I haven't been keeping score…" I narrow my eyes into slits and he does likewise. "You know what you are? You're like an annoying fly that buzzes around the house lighting on everything and contaminating it with your filth!" I spit at him. His emerald eyes squint at me and his lips turn down into a frown.

"No matter how much you swat at the fly you can't smash it, it keeps eluding you."

"Screw you! Flies get caught in the spiders' web, just like I will catch you some time or another…and when I do I will take great delight in watching you squirm, helpless and trembling with fear, as I wrap you up like a nice little gift…then I'll suck out your soul and watch it whither!" I break out into a laugh that most people find creepy or maniacal, I happen to love the sound of it. My brother just keeps regarding me with a stare he would like to think of as sinister, I don't think he's quite got sinister down yet. Maybe someday when he's older he'll be able to strike terror into people with just one look, but that day is not today, and that person will never be me. I am Big Red and he would do good to remember just what a monster I can be.

"Wow." He says and leans close to me as he stares at something. My laughter dies down as I blink at him and I feel another snarl come on.

"What, you ain't seen ugly before? Just look in the mirror!"

"No, but I've never seen that!" He points to my face. "Hey Elton John, every time you open your mouth I get to see the Grand Canyon, it's right between your teeth!" He refers to this stupid gap between my teeth. He starts to laugh at me and turns to run as I reach out to grab him by the throat. I just miss and he bolts toward the looming house that all the kids are afraid to walk past. I chase him, close on his heels.

We spill into the parlor and we claw and fight like two feral dogs scrapping over a piece of meat. I tear his shirt but he manages to get up and thus is free again. He looks over his shoulder with those blazing jade eyes just long enough to poke his oversized tongue out at me. He runs down the stares and again I follow and bellow at him as we go. Behind me I hear a crash as I brush a table and a vase falls off to its underserved but fated demise. I don't care, I am going to get him and tear him limb from limb and listen to his agonizing cries and thoroughly enjoy myself whilst performing said act.

I stop and duck my head into a room that he likes to sneak in to. It is the room where the corpses go to get embalmed and painted up so we can all pretend that death is pretty. There are a few dead people here today ready to get their final makeovers. I can see the pale, cold, cadavers resting on the metal tables. That bloated ugly man is humming as he paints make-up on to some old lady. I see my nemesis is not in here so I pull my head out and go on to another room. I can feel that he's in here somewhere hiding. I look around at all the caskets, some stand leaning against the wall or against each other like grieving family. Some are stacked on tables awaiting their passenger who they will cradle in eternal sleep. There are tall ones, small ones, cheap ones, lavish ones, made from all kinds of wood and all kinds of colors. They are almost like strange little jewels. I creep around quietly and try to feel him out. I think it's this one. I stop by one leaning against the wall. It's pearly, glittering, like the glimmering white of a rolling eyeball. I jerk the lid open, sure I will find my prey all afright and squirming, but I am only greeted with the empty inside, royal blue silk. On to the next, now I know he's in here. This one is a deep red cherry color. The color reminds me of a glassy pool of blood. This one is mini-sized, because even children die.

"I know you're in here, you little--" I am greeted with a deep green lining this time like soft forest foliage. Likewise there is still emptiness. My patience begins to wear thin, not that there is much depth to my patience to begin with, about as much depth as a mud puddle. I can feel my brow bunch and my lips pull back from my teeth as I stomp around like an angry horse. I no longer care if I am quiet. I jerk open lid after lid to find absolutely nothing but a gray moth that flutters out of on of the caskets like a living piece of dust. I contemplate leaving and just going back out to look at the clouds, at least now I could without being tormented, because he now hides somewhere in one of these fine jewels and for some strange reason he's known to enjoy it. He thinks I'm weird but he sneaks in here all the time to rest in a coffin for hours. I don't know what he does, maybe it brings comfort, or maybe he just naturally has a strong connection to the darkness. I'm really not sure. Mom always teases him and says he acts like he's more dead than alive, but then again, she says this to a boy who is raised in a funeral home and walks among the dead daily.

"Boo!"

Suddenly I'm whacked in the nose with a flying lid. He has thrust open the lid of a sleek black vessel, the one I stand nearest to. I hold my nose as it throbs and makes my eyes tear up. I hope those teary eyes burn holes into him. He just lays there with his arms crossed over his chest and he laughs at me and rolls his eyes around.

"Look…I'm dead!"

"What do you want from me!" I sniffle my nose. "I'm going to give you the beating of your life! You'll be broken in so many pieces that you'll be nothing more than little specks and slivers of bloody flesh and splintered bone…" I start to laugh again. That's a pleasant thought. I would love to see his flesh (or just any flesh in general) squash between my fingers.

"What do I want from you?" He cocks his head at me slowly. He steps out of the coffin and musters up a deep voice, at least what passes as a deep voice for a ten-year-old. "I want your soul!"

"Go ahead and take it, I don't need it!"

We start to fight again. We wrestle around the room and bump into caskets jarring them from their places and spilling them over like dominos of death. They tilt and cock here and there looking like jagged teeth or toppled gravestones.

"Your mother is going to be very, very, angry!"

We stop and regard the blob of a man. We both have our hands around each others necks. It's that stupid guy who looks like an obese, comical, version of Gomez Adams. I can't stand him. He comes in and starts to straighten the abused boxes we have so carelessly disturbed. It is then that I realize I have released my grasp from my brothers' throat and so likewise he has released his grasp on mine. Now we both grin at each other mischievously. As I said before we are often at odds but we are quick to unite for a common goal. We sneak up, we tip-toe quietly, as the man bends over to adjust one of the coffins, just our luck it's a really big one. His plump rear is the only thing we can see and it's like a big cushy target: our common goal. We both shove as hard as we can and he tumbles face first into the casket. Before he can back out we both slam the lid and close it and exchange high-fives.

"That was cool!"

"Yeah, so what next?" I ask the boy, as I put aside the fact that moments earlier we were at each others throats ready to tear them out and watch the other leak crimson until death.

"I'm going to go hang out at the park or...maybe in the graveyard. It's peaceful there."

"And you think I'm the strange one?" I grin at him showing that gap in my teeth.

"You play with fire."

"Let me out of here, you little hellions!" The imprisoned man bangs on the inside of the coffin which causes it to rock and wobble. We don't even turn to look at it. We don't say anything back to him. We may come and let him out later once he's lost all hope, or all oxygen. I fish a lighter out of my back pocket and flip it open. I bring to life a small orange flame and watch as it dances before my enthralled eyes. It's such a beautiful thing to behold.

"I do like fire. But your point is?" I say as I keep my gaze affixed to the brilliant, exotic, light. He leans in and with one puff of air extinguishes it.

"You're going to burn this place down some day." He looks around at the caskets and coffins which just sit here like very expensive kindling.

"Go on and get out of here!" I shout at him and tuck the lighter back into my pocket. Once again he has managed to irk me. I think he kind of enjoys it. His words echo in my mind. You're going to burn this place down someday. My throat closes against the hot bite of the smoke. It billows everywhere and fills my lungs with ash. I watch as flames, so hot they burn white at their cores, lick the ceiling and make dark black circles above their heads. I gaze at them in wonder as they claim the death boxes with cackling fury. I watch in awe as the sizzling fingers creep their way towards me. They start to bite at my flesh. I can't decide if I love the fiery demons or if I hate them. They are so beautiful to behold, they are so ugly, the are hungry and ravenous, the give and they take. I don't know if the blisters that bubble on my skin hurt or whether they fill me with pleasure. I wonder if they're going to take me? It would be kind of ironic to die in a funeral parlor. My pants and shirt start to smoke and then flame. What can I do about it? I am cornered in this room. For the first time I feel fear start to seep into my heart. I don't know how these things I love so much could just turn against me and eat me up like they devour everything else. I can smell my own flesh burn, my hair sizzles, and along with it, I can feel my mind take that last, final, break into madness as I look at the gorgeous reds and oranges and whites that surround me with their roaring heat. I fall to my knees as something inside me is engulfed and sat ablaze. I welcome them with a laugh more menacing than any that has escaped my lips before.

I wake up to the fire. My lungs are filled with smoke and I can't breathe! I roll around trying to get these flames to quit eating at my flesh and I plummet over the edge of something short and land with a thud. My eyes feel like they're melting out of my burning head. My ears are filled only with the strained gasping of my lungs and the crackling of wood burning. I crawl around on the floor and try to make my way to somewhere, I'm not quite sure where. I end up in a bathroom and I find myself clutching to the toilet as I throw up violently. This taste in my mouth of ashes mixed with bile, this smell in my nose of burnt flesh and smoldering hair, makes slimy, sour, chunks rise up my throat again. My whole body starts to shiver uncontrollably and I hear a new sound. The pop and crack of the fire drifts away and they are now trumped by these tortured sobs that burst from me on their own accord. I pull myself up to the sink and with trembling hands I splash icy water onto my face. At last I am able to open my eyes. Tears spill from them and run down my face. When I look into the mirror I see the face of a boy who is scarred and deformed, the fire that ravaged him so cruelly now dances in his eyes. I shriek at the image and before I can stop myself I drive my fist into the mirror and it shatters and slices my knuckles. Shards and slivers attack my face, they fly at me like icy pellets of rain, they nip at my cheeks like sniping teeth.

I try to catch my breath and calm myself. I feel reality start to wash over me and following it waves of relief roll in. The nightmare begins to dissipate. I fall back against the towel rack and slide to the floor.

There is a pounding on the door to my room. It sounds like Layfield yelling on the other side.

"Glen, Glen?" There's more banging. I can hear a groan come from someone else.

"Do you have to be so loud? I have one bitch of a hangover here!"

That's Jerry. I think absently. John pounds on my door relentlessly, his voice becomes louder, and he bellows my name. The problem is that at this moment I'm not sure whether I answer to that name. I look up at the jagged splinters of mirror and see multiple images of myself reflected.

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