mordred
His bandana was stained with blood. No, not just stained -- soaked. Drenched. It was positively black with it. And he held it in his hand like some sort of gruesome trophy, a grim smile on his face. I wanted to look away, but I couldn't stop staring.
The sick crack of bone, the squish of blood and meat hitting pavement was something Jack had come to associate with success. He was still a kid, but his older brothers had taught him that much already. All of them, himself included, had come from dirty, violent backgrounds -- fighting and killing were the norm, even if their mother tried her damnedest to instill in them different values. When the other guy fell, he won. When the other guy was dead, that was even better.
I was split in two. I felt like a part of me had been cut off and killed on the day I found out about my twin's death. It had been an accident, just a car crash, but it was more like someone had murdered me.
It was a leap of faith, to be sure -- even I was uncertain how things would end. He made a promise, but could he follow through? I tried to tell myself that he could and would, but there's always that tiny voice in the background telling me to get real.
They were against matching. Being identical was bad enough; they wouldn't wear the same clothes, or have the same haircuts. They were two different people with two distinct personalities.
It wasn't my fault. What they did, I had no part in. I was just as betrayed as Father was -- and I was driven to prove it to him. I would make him believe me. I had to. If he didn't listen, it would be his head on the chopping block.