Page 33 of Rage

Your Twin Was Better

By: Heleva Risque

Prologue

Arkady

“On the charge of manslaughter, we, the jury, find the defendant, Antony Accetta, guilty..”

My legs felt like rubber. Surely this wasn’t real. This had to be a nightmare, and I’d wake up any time now, back in my own bed, roll over and get a good morning blowjob from my girlfriend, and get ready for work. I’d go to my dead-end job at the bank, hand other people money until time to clock out, and come home to a box lasagna in the oven and a fat, happy dog on my couch.

Instead, the only dream I woke up from was the one where I lived my sentencing over and over, the conviction they’d been led to by way of DNA tests and analysis of crime scene photos. And, of course, my brother’s lovely testimony.

The one he gave while impersonating me.

I couldn’t blame him–a murder conviction was forever. And he was too busy living the high life to spend the next ten years in jail.

His letters to me while I served his sentencing were laughable.

Keep your head up, brother! Those years will fly by!

You can still file an appeal. I’ll call your lawyer and ask how I can help.

Mom misses you. I hope you’re taking this time in jail to reflect on how you’ve affected not just the victims, but your own family.

The bars on my cell were cold, hard, and uninviting, the overall effect like a cage rather than a cell. My heart pounded any time they brought chow, pacing like a tiger to keep my cool until the tray was in the slot and I was devouring the bland, seasonless bullshit they passed off as food.

Five years ago, my twin brother killed his girlfriend in cold blood and then fled the scene. He called and asked me to help him clean up a mess he’d made.

Until that day, I had no idea my brother was involved with drugs. Until that day, I had no idea what kind of monster shared my face, features, and hometown.

Until that day, I had no idea what danger came from inside the family tree.

When I pulled up to his apartment, all the lights were out, and he met me on the porch, his hands shaking, eyes wide, pupils dilated the wrong way. He was staring a motion light in the face, yet his pupils were huge, and I began to suspect something was up.

I didn’t get suspicious fast enough, though.

“Hand me your phone, man; I gotta make a call,” he muttered, handing me a dead cell phone. “I can’t find my charge cord.”

I took his phone and inspected it, finding it dead. No surprise there. He’d always been bad with electronics. So I didn’t think twice as I handed my own over with a frown. “You’ve gotta get better with this. What if Mom called in the middle of the night with an emergency or something?”

He waved off my concern and reached for the doorknob, hesitating at the last moment. “Go on in, man. I’ll join you in the kitchen.”

I didn’t realize he was setting me up, putting my prints everywhere. I’d been in his apartment more times than I could count for one thing or another. So, it was only natural my prints were everywhere, just like his. But what I didn’t find out until later was the fucker had eroded his fingerprints years ago in preparation for his life as a hardened criminal. Leaving no trace wasn’t a concern when someone else shared your DNA. Your fingerprints, on the other hand, were a liability.

I hadn’t touched his hands in ages. There was no way for me to know what he had planned.

Still didn’t stop me from beating myself up about it.

The light switches weren’t working when I tried them, so I moved into the kitchen from memory, a hand on the wall to keep me from bumping into anything on the way. When I got to the kitchen, though, the light from the window on the far wall above the sink was more than enough to show me just what kind of ‘mess’ I’d walked into.

So much blood.

It was on the cabinets, clear to the ceiling, dripping down like red rain. It was on the walls, insane arcs that displayed multiple hits and violent intent. It was in the sink, splattered where a sharp, shiny chef knife sat, coated in the shit. It was on the counters, smears and drops and prints the shape of hands that reminded me of a B-list slasher flick from the 90s.

It was on the floor, pooling under the body of my brother’s girlfriend, her arms and legs littered with slash marks and gashes and puncture wounds that left no doubt as to whose blood this was.

“Tony,” I whispered, my voice absent in my shock. “Tony,Tony, get in here?—”

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