I run my fingers across my chest and feel the bumps. Four small scars where your claws sank into my flesh, a reminder I don’t need of the night I will never forget. Our bodies pressed together in a violent embrace until I pulled you away, my fear lending me strength I did not own, forcing me to ignore the pain as your talons broke off deep under my skin, sharp as steel yet rotten like wormy wood. I held you at arm’s length, staring into the twisted horror where your face should have been. I almost laughed in joy at having conquered an old foe, yet when I looked into your eyes, my happiness stuck in my throat, and terror gripped my heart. My own eyes stared back at me from a leather mask of hatred. I wanted to pull my knife and slit your throat in cold blood but I could not, as the knife slipped from my fingers. It was my intention, my desire to kill you, until the moment that I saw my eyes in your face, I could have done it easily. I saw myself holding you by the throat, an ugly imp kicking and struggling as you slowly choked to death. But I was suddenly terrified, suspecting that this hard-won victory would be no victory at all, just another of your tricks, an illusion of success meant to lure me into another unexpected sin. I wavered, unsure, until a sound bubbled up from your chest, choked off by my desperate grip.
You croaked out my name. Without thinking, I heaved, throwing you from the cliff, watching as you fell, laughing as your body smashed against the rocks, the bloody stain appearing green in the deceptive pre-dawn light. That night was so long ago, yet I have watched it thousands of times, rolling the memory around in my mind, tasting it like charred meat still hot from the fire, painful and succulent. My long beard has since turned gray, and I have watched my sons grow strong as I feel my strength wither away. The scars I keep hidden for they shame me, though against my will and behind my back, the story has somehow been told When others catch sight of the old wounds, they praise me for a long-ago battle gloriously fought and won, unaware that their words reawaken the pain and embarrass me. They see me as a hero, the bones of my enemy bleached and broken as a misunbderstood testament, a ragged monument at the bottom of a lonely mountain.
My limp is cited as a badge of courage. But for me, it’s all just pain, remembered and real, lies that I permit to grow with the years because I am too old, too tired, and too apathetic to argue against the naïve ignorance that makes them honor what they can’t understand. They see a saint where a sinner stands. I reject the pretenses or apologies. I burn with hatred for the enemy who defeated when I killed him. My victory only gave me a taste of defeat that will never leave me.
Yet I still fight. I must. My soul was lost, but I will never permit the beast near my family, even in death. I never permit myself to believe the lie that I permit to grow through my silence. I pray to be allowed to believe that good can defeat evil, though in my heart, I know better. I mouth a silent prayer, fervent words I can never believe. I cannot, even in those bright moments of false hope when I wish it to be true. Those bright days of sunshine, when I breathe deep, sucking in sweet spring air, I feel your claws inside my chest pricking my lungs. I would believe, but the truth was burned into my heart the moment I looked into your eyes. I lost my hope when I realized I could never truly win.
You would have died had I left you alone, walked away, choosing a life of solemn piety. But I decided to fight evil, emphasizinbg its existence by fighting, so you live on, your claws the only fragment of your body left alive in the world, still inside of me as a reminder of the battle I could not win. My heart rips itself to pieces, beating against the black talons that have grown larger in my chest, but I keep the pain hidden. The night that I chose to kill you, turning back to face you in the darkness, that was the night of your greatest victory. I threw you to your death, but you live on, buried inside of me. I killed you, but you gave better. You only died once, but I die every time I feel the lie my life has become.
And yet, dare I say it, even though I don’t believe in victory over evil, knowing that evil lives on, buried in my flesh? Even so, I shall climb this mountain, your claws pricking me as I speak. I will win this battle, going alone, leaving my wife and children behind. I shall build an altar and lie upon it. There I will draw my knife and spill my own life’s blood. I hear your acid laughter, pouring scorn onto my words. You doubt, yet I know I can do this. I must. Self-loathing will give me strength. As I breathe my last painful breaths, victory will be mine. Because when I die, so will you, my friend, my self, my hated enemy, my twin brother.
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