Notes

Truman's small body was wracked with fear as he sat on his knees in the locked shed, his older brother looming eerily over him. The seven-year-old boy's fingers were trembling and pale, and he could feel bile beginning to rise in his throat. Recently, Herbert had been becoming worse and worse, ordering more worship and obedience with each passing day. Now, today's order was for Truman to be baptized. The thought of it made the boy feel nauseous; he did not want to dedicate himself to someone so cruel and uncaring. Yet besides that, there he was, sitting obediently before the "god" he worshipped.

"...Ready? Brother? Are you ready, brother?" Herbert repeated himself. Truman managed to turn his eyes upon his brother. He stood, bent over him, still and cold and lifeless like a statue, eyes narrowed like a hawk with a baby mouse. The little boy immediately felt his throat tighten, and he set his gaze back upon his own lap. Truman hadn't really managed to hear what his brother had said. All he could hear was a sharp ringing. Despite that, he agreed to whatever he had said with a weak "yes."

"Good." Herbert responded coolly, straightening his posture. Wordlessly, the man reached into his pocket, and pulled out an old silver dagger. Truman eyed the weapon cautiously, yet silently. He felt his heart jumping in his chest as his brother approached him with the sharp object, however he never felt the blade of the dagger as he'd expected - though of course, why would Truman expect that? His brother loved him, obviously, because brothers love each other, and do not hurt or stab each other. His brother would not harm him. His brother would never intentionally hurt him.

No, Truman's brother did not injure him. He did, however, put the dagger to use. Herbert stepped behind his brother, reaching for the workbench and claiming something from atop it. However, Truman dared not look up at his brother. Herbert returned to his position before his younger brother. He placed something into his hands. It was the soft pink body of a dead piglet. It was tiny, and its body still felt warm and fresh in Truman's fingers. He saw nothing on the piglet's body indicating it getting killed, such as stab wounds or bruises. All he knew was that it died very recently. He felt numb as he stared into its lifeless black eyes.

Herbert took the warm carcass from Truman's hands, cradling it in both arms. "Look at me." He ordered. Truman, being a good child, obeyed his command immediately. "Do you swear to dedicate yourself to me, devoting your life to me as your god?" He asked blankly as though he already knew the answer, his cold blue eyes piercing straight through his younger brother. The little boy was trembling more than ever, feeling his blood run cold at the question. He knew his brother was going to ask it, yet he still felt himself fighting back the urge to vomit at his words.

"Do you?" Herbert repeated, more firmly this time, causing Truman to flinch. He felt the need to grab his older brother by the face. Then, he wanted to dig his little fingers and nails into his eye sockets, poking and popping out each bleeding eye. Then he wanted to drive his fingers into his mouth, shove his nails between his gums and teeth, then twist off his tongue until he was unable to scream, scratch his cheeks until they were nothing but strings of muscle, tear his throat until he sang with blood, punch his face until he didn't look like his brother anymore, then rip all the skin off of his face so he'd look as inhuman as he acted. Then, Truman said "yes".

A wide grin stretched across Herbert's ugly face. His face which had not been twisted, scratched, torn, punched or otherwise desecrated. His ugly, ugly face. He grabbed the piglet by the neck with one skinny, ugly hand, then used the other to slit its tiny throat. The blood was trickling down. Truman could not stop thinking about how ugly his brother was. The blood was trickling down from the laceration. Truman could not stop thinking about how ugly his brother was as he dared to glance up at his hideous face. The blood was trickling down from the laceration Herbert had inflicted on the piglet. Truman could not stop thinking about how ugly his brother was as he dared to glance up at his hideous face, feeling the bile rising in his throat once more at the disgusting thing. The blood was trickling down from the laceration Herbert had inflicted on the piglet, leaving a warm crimson trail as it dripped upon Truman's gold hair, then down the bridge of his nose, and between his lips.

Truman had been baptized in the blood of the offspring of the swine, and he could not stop thinking about how ugly his brother was.