Where it all began
At the age of six, my brother Milton and I loved our parents very much and we twins were inseparable. Even now in the heat of day I remember the blisteringly dry summer days. The days when Milton and I bombarded the neighbors' houses with strange mutant tomatoes to the point where, only after a few hours, the tomatoes were already bushy messes of mold growing on their front porch. Those were our special tomatoes, the ones we grew over the grave of our not-so-long-ago departed fish. Although, we'd get in trouble for our mischievous well-being but we still grew up together and happy.
That was, until our eight birthday. Everything was going smoothly; happy mornings, the opening of presents, blowing out the candles, and whatnot. I always had a tendency to take random naps during the day, and so that day I awoke to sunset and skidded downstairs to my family. But when I returned to them, I was unable to hold them for the sight before my very eyes unsettled my stomach. The walls were dripping from spewed blood. My mother was sitting in her chair, her neck slit and her body disemboweled. Our father was slumped over against the wall on the floor, or what was left of him; he too was cleaved into pieces. And Milton, standing between them, stood maniacally smiling to himself as the blood soaked blade dripped onto the floor.
He turned around toward me and I could see the calmness and comfort in his eyes and in his face, and the blood that was thoroughly splattered onto his sweater. Milton dropped the knife down onto the table, and slowly wavered towards me. When he was in front of me I didn't move; I just watched as he nicked out my right eye.
"Happy Birthday brother." His face was peaceful and kind. Milton crookedly smiled as he offered me my eye.