I told her he’d never look at her again, and he didn’t. I took out his eyes the very next day. Before he’d had time to waken from the hangover and realize how badly he’d messed up. It was the decent thing to do, really. With a man like Anderson, blindness would be a mercy. And far too good for him, if you ask me. Of course, it wasn’t my choice to take his eyes. Simply the way things are, in our family. I suppose we never understood the concept of familial bonds. Maybe it was ‘cause we all grew up so far away from one another. Or maybe it was just the fact our dad was a complete and utter bastard. Took care to visit us all, especially when we were young. Most folks complain about little kids. Say they’re difficult. Loud. Messy. But they’re wrong. You see, that’s when they’re at their easiest. Don’t believe me? Just try getting in the good graces of a fourteen-year-old. That’ll show you. If our dad had come to me when I was that age, I’m pretty sure I would’ve gouged his eyes out, too. But the old man was too clever for that. He stayed away from all of us, but one, and that was my sister Lucrecia. Luce, she could be as bad as the devil himself, but she always did have a soft spot for the old fool, and I suppose therein lay her greatest fault. No one hurt Luce more than that bastard. And we, in turn, made sure he got what was coming to him. Anyway, this isn’t a story about him. Not sure this is a story about anyone, really. Except for my brother’s eyes. Sitting on my desk as I write this, staring up at me. Judging, still. I suppose some things can’t be altered by even the sharpest of knives. Sometimes, I toy with the idea of feeding them to my dog, Erin. She’s a good dog. A Mastiff. Eat up my brother’s pale blue eyes in a heartbeat. What usually stops me is a sound somewhere at the other end of the house. My wife humming to herself or cleaning the guest bedroom. For dust and the accumulation of lives unlived. It’s her that makes me leave those eyes where they are. ‘Cause every so often, she’ll come in here, uninvited, as is her habit, to dust and scrub away all my excesses. Making the place more hospitable, she calls it. Me, I don’t see who’s got any business coming in here in the first place. But when she comes into the room, one good thing does happen – she sees the eyes in their glass casing. And they send a shiver down her spine every time. Maybe even a tear down her cheek, on occasion. I wouldn’t know, as I always make sure not to be here when she gets in. Best that way, I find. I’ve told her. It’ll be a finger, next. For her. For him, let’s just say things will become far more difficult. But then, that’s who we are. Our lot, we’ve always believed in punishment over redemption. But also over death. Suppose there’s some small solace to be taken from that. We’re not animals; just men who’ve lost their way. Suppose you imagine, by now, that my wife is innocent in all this. The savage, some of you are no doubt thinking. That’s alright. We have ways unlike any you’ve ever seen before. I understand that. But I feel you should know, we only cut off the offending parts. If I were to take Anderson’s life for looking at my wife, then I would be without a brother. And quite likely, I wouldn’t be here, writing this. You, in turn, would not be reading this. Even now, you might’ve decided to go out for a brisk walk. Enjoy the greenery while things are still green. You might be killed by a falling lamp post. You might be the unfortunate victim of a car crash. You might be… or you might not. I imagine by now, you are wondering why I am writing this. What am I getting at with this short, gruesome note about blindness and betrayal? And while there might be many things said about this, the short answer is – I am writing this for you. Whoever you are, having opened this box, containing, still, my brother’s blue eyes. You were probably surprised, when you first opened this box, as I don’t imagine you know the history of my family. I very much doubt you are a direct descendant of mine and my wife’s. By my reckoning, there will be none of us left, by the time all this is over. So you may be a very distant relative, by chance. Or you may well be someone who’s come into the possessions that once belonged to my family purely by accident. Perhaps you bought them at an auction, believing you were getting yourself quite the deal. More fool you. You will find no great fortune here, but by the time you’re done reading, you may come out a little wiser for it. I do not flatter myself in the vain illusion that I have something worth teaching. Although that is in one’s nature, and although I may well have one or two things up my sleeve, as they say. No. The true reason I write this is, I’m afraid, far more mundane. I, like all my fellow humans, feel a burning need to have my story heard. Across the decades, and into the mountains. To wherever you are, and whomever you may be. In the days that come, I warrant you will find more notes like this, attached, I imagine, to their own little surprises. They are my version of what happened here. Or perhaps they’re merely an old man’s ramblings on the side of some scattered fragments of a man. Rotting? No, I took good care that they should not rot. Now to see if my story has fared any worse, down the unforgiving years. I wasn’t there the day my brother committed his crime. Neither did my wife warn me about it. There is guilt in the absence of a confession, they say. But I say, what sort of sense is that? Of course, they’re not going to confess. Regardless if they did it or not. Wouldn’t believe them if they did, would you? No, the way I found out was through our maid, Anita. She was a solid, reliable woman. Quiet. But she left after I brought home my brother’s eyes, wrapped inside a silk napkin. The eyes, as you by now know, ended up on my desk. The napkin, on the other hand, I gave to Anita to clean, and I suppose that was the last drop for the old girl. Everyone has their breaking point. And even the stoutest of servants will someday fail you. I suppose it’s best this way. One thing you need to understand is, I do not know my brother well. Anderson is to me as much a stranger as any of the fine men who pass me by as I walk down Oxford Street. We were first acquainted when he was sixteen and I was twenty-one. Men, in that time, but still, a lifetime ago. We were not close, and it seems old-age has not brought us any closer. I say old age with the vanity that befalls a man pushing fifty. An exorbitant age, one I have no right of seeing. In fact, let this note here be a living testament to my desire to perish before the great day. But I digress. I was telling you about my brother’s eyes, and how he so carelessly lost them. But I’m afraid there isn’t so much to tell. There was talk of impropriety, though Anita was only doing her job. She would not go on to speak of it to anyone else, in or outside the house. Largely because I would’ve chased her down and cut her tongue out if she had. But I like to think Anita came to me out of a lingering sense of duty, so regrettably absent from the younger generations of today. I like to think it was not the fear of punishment that had her confide in me, but her inherent loyalty to my family. My wife has never been a great beauty, you understand. Which has only made her that much more vivacious. Unpredictable. Like a feral cat, backed into a corner, my wife is. Unfortunately, what might’ve once been appealing to a boy of twenty-three rapidly became stale and reckless, as the boy spiraled into a man. But my wife is cunning and sly, and the danger of being caught only spurs her on even more. Most men around us have long learned their lesson. Thankfully, I have not had to take out too many eyes before the world got the message. Yet it seems my brother was not so fortunate. They say men are weak, by comparison. They are, of course, right. When my wife took it into her head to play with her latest mouse, it was only a matter of time until the poor fool caved in. Of course, I did not take my brother’s eyes on his first transgression. He is family, after all, so I made the appropriate allowances, which in turn, were misinterpreted for weakness. I am a permissive man, but I too have my limits. Anderson grew bold in his pursuit of my beloved. His eyes turned from stolen glances that would last no more than a fraction of a second to long, lingering stares, even under my very own nose. I was sitting opposite my brother, indulging in a rare game of Scrabble, when I decided I would have to deal with the matter personally. The word on the board was “ANOPSIA”. I earned 13 points. Funny how things line up sometimes, isn’t it? That night, once my brother had departed our home, I went to find my wife, who’d retreated to our bedroom. She’d sensed, perhaps, that her game had gone too far, and much like a child, she now felt out of her depth. I asked her if there had been any more than looks between them. I figured it was only fair. It was only after she’d promised me there had not that I swore to her Anderson would never set eyes on her again. And I, as you can no doubt tell, have kept my promise. But perhaps you’re wondering about these eyes you now hold in your hand. Perhaps you’d like to know what they’ve seen, or even, still spare a thought to pity them. That, unfortunately, I can not tell you. But I believe, if you look closely, you may still see my wife’s figure inscribed on their retinas. ... In the end, it was I who caved. I’d threatened a much worse punishment for my brother, should he dare disrespect me and mine again, but to my shame, I could not go through with it. He is, after all, family. Other, weaker men might’ve caved on behalf of their wives. But like me, Amalia is ruthless and not easily impressed. Amalia is my wife, of course. I should think you may have encountered her portrait if you have somehow come into the possession of my family’s belongings. I can but hope that you got her very best. Painted by a man from Flanders, it shows my raven-haired temptress of a wife in all her deceiving, spiteful glory. The one where she has a fur wrapped around her tender shoulders. It has always been my wife’s habit to cover herself so. It leaves so much more to the imagination, she tells me, and I dare not contradict. As I was saying, you might think the reason I caved was for some sort of intervention on my wife’s part. A love-driven plea for my wayward brother. That, however, was not the case. While Amalia can be a very caring woman, she is also delightfully possessive. On top of that, she has been raised and by all accounts, encouraged, to expect only the very best. The mere thought that she might be worth any less than a full hand would be unspeakable to her. So you see, in sparing my brother the loss of a hand, I actually incurred the wrath of my wife upon myself. I dare imagine that it may have been this very transgression that spurred her on even further in her shameless pursuit of my brother. I warned her, when I came home that night, that next time, it would be far more than a finger, and far more than a hand. Yet knowing my wife, I imagine that spurred on the fun. You may be by now wondering how my brother came, exactly, to this gruesome continuation. Surely, once he’d lost the gift of sight, he would’ve learned a valuable lesson. But there, you see, you show how little you know our family. I might’ve not admitted it at the time, but I did not, for a second, imagine that my brother would stop simply because I’d gouged his eyes out. Not even as I was performing the bloody feat. To do so would have been beneath him, and a permanent stain on my family’s reputation. Anderson did retreat to his own secluded residence in the country, for the better part of three weeks. To cleanse his spirits, he said, but I suspect it had more to do with cleaning the bandages draped across his face. My father, may the damned spare no expense on his soul, took good care to leave us all with a handsome fortune, most of it amassed over the stocks or the horses. And so, my brother had ample space to cleanse and recover. He would’ve had the social standing to recommend him to a hoard of eligible young ladies, more or less skilled in the art of worldly joys. Yet, while I am not one for gossip, I imagine my brother did not take advantage of that fact in his current situation. Meanwhile, Amalia and I received the visit of my darling sister Lucrecia at our home in the city. There were five of us, once, only four of which survived past their thirtieth year. Our brother Jonathan perished in a sad and not entirely accidental incident involving a lion and a bucket of tar upon his twenty-seventh birthday, and no more was spoken of that. Put simply, he went in a manner not befitting our family. And since none of us had had time to get close to him, we unanimously chose to put him behind us. You might think, having read this far, that we must’ve been something of a disparate family. Chaotic, some might even say. But I assure you, my siblings and I decided, upon learning of one another’s existence, that from now on, we should act as if we were the best of brothers. Of course, things so rarely go according to plan, and between me and Anderson, it was far too late to ever hope for that missing bond to be recovered. Jonathan was roughly nineteen at the time and for a while, he was an eager part of our merry gang. But towards the end, he chose to distance himself, as if sensing he shouldn’t linger too long for fear of leaving behind a wreckage. Our youngest brother, Hercules, was only seven at the time, and so at an almost impossible disadvantage since none of us had ever been the paternal kind. With Luce, on the other hand, it was almost too easy. Lucrecia was fifteen when we met her, a single year younger than Anderson himself. But with her, there needed to be no quarrels. No pointless rivalries. No youthful demonstration of bravado. In spite of her young age, Lucrecia rapidly installed herself as the shared mother we’d always lacked. She became our guiding angel, a role she carried admirably into her adulthood. So it was always with great pleasure that I received her in our family home. I’d devised a careful plan to keep her, shall we say, unaware of our brother’s condition, at least for the duration of her visit. I knew Luce would not see things the way the rest of us did. She had never condoned our feral ways, and I suppose that is only befitting of a proper lady, which my sister most certainly is. But alas, my sister is also cunning. She noticed the chilliness of our welcome and must’ve inferred from it that something was amiss. And so little by little, she wheedled her way around my house until the great mystery of my brother’s eyes unraveled before her. Berated me for my action, not before demanding that she see the offensive souvenir for herself. Naturally, as is my sister’s habit, the trial did not end with me. She telephoned our blind brother and spent the better part of an hour with him. My sister normally has a wonderful bedside manner, but she, too, has her limits. In truth, the only thing that kept her from traveling to my brother’s home in the country herself was my brother’s rather loose view of domestic etiquette. Lucrecia will put up with many things, but servants with lax morals do not fall into that category, I fear. After ensuring that the coast was clear, my brother returned to the hunting ground. With no pomp, which was a tad unusual for my brother. He’d always delighted in gathering large flocks of sycophants around him and allowing them to marvel at his illustrious persona. But I imagine even the kindliest of bards can not overlook the rather bloody and mangled absence of both eyes if you’ll pardon the expression. For my part, I remained unaware of my brother’s arrival, at first. Had Anita still been with us, I’ve little doubt I would have heard about his visit to my wife a lot quicker. But by that time, Anita had left us for about two weeks already, and we’d hired a young, inexperienced girl in her stead. A foolish mistake on my part, one I later came to regret, especially since I’d always been so diligent with hiring staff before. But in those days, my mind was elsewhere, and it eventually led to my giving the position to that nineteen-year-old fickle thing. Even blind, Anderson must’ve still retained a considerable amount of his charm, for he managed to swear my maid to secrecy. And bribed her, to make extra sure. One should never underestimate the power of a good bribe. No, it was not from the people I paid that I eventually learned the truth, but from Amalia herself. My wife, who liked to run circles around me, yet who failed to understand I was no longer a mouse trapped by her clever game. She did not come right out with it and say it, of course. Looking back, I must admit I’m more than a little disappointed with myself. I should have known that Anderson, once incensed, would never let the matter go. The way he saw it, much as he could in the circumstances, was since he’d already paid the price, he might as well enjoy the chase. He’d come to see my wife a total of three times, twice when I was away on business, and once during my monthly game of poker. A most manly game, that. Proper. Of course, I never saw its charm, but I learned long ago that one must roll with the times. During this time, my brother was courting my wife, not understanding, still, that it was her who ran the games, and not him nor I. He entered our home, always considerate enough not to bring flowers or other such romantic nonsense that might’ve betrayed his presence to me. And to my shame, I might not have learned of his visits at all, if it hadn’t been for one fatal vice that proved his undoing. The night I returned from my poker game, I found the lamp on our veranda lit and half a dozen stubs in my ivory marble ashtray. A gift left by my wife, naturally, on purpose. She must’ve grown bored of my brother’s efforts, or perhaps she’d grown frustrated at my inability to catch on. Amalia, of course, never touched the stuff, because she said it made your lungs rot. I, in a rare display of wit, was always quick to remind her that she’d somehow managed to rot her insides without the aid of tobacco or absinthe which was, by all accounts, rather remarkable. Anderson, on the other hand, smoked like a chimney, which indicated that either it had been a very short visit, or he’d done his best to abstain, for my wife’s benefit. The poor fool. And so I bounded up the staircase, only to find my wife gloating in our bedroom. Gleeful at the red in my cheeks. She always did like to drive a good game, but unfortunately for her, that time, she drove it too far. I’d warned her what would happen should she fail to stay away from my brother, but I don’t think she’d really believed me. It is one thing to maim a rival, but the woman you love? It would be ungentlemanly. Yet not as ungentlemanly as not keeping your word, and I had given my word on the matter. As you can no doubt tell by the souvenir you’re even now holding in your hand, my wife’s pinky finger has been excellently preserved. In fact, that very night, I visited a funeral home, the best in the city, and inquired as to what preservatives might help us remember this most unfortunate accident. For my beloved, only the very best would do. When I presented her with the gold encasing you now hold in your hand, carrying inside her carefully manicured finger, I was met with contentment. My wife was infuriated, and I couldn’t quite tell if it was for what I had done to her own hand, or for the punishment that had befallen Anderson. For my brother, of course, it was a different matter. By my own wife’s account, his careless hand had traced her naked fingers several times. Even, very briefly, held her own delicate hand. What stayed my hand that God-awful night was a strange sense of fondness for the man. Even though we’d never been close, I could not bring myself to leave him without a hand, when not a month ago, he’d so tragically lost his eyes. His severed finger, however, I cast into the fireplace. You may think me cruel, but I did this out of the misguided, largely idealistic hope that this endeavor would end. For I have always been an optimist at heart, and a considerable part of me longed for the final bell to ring, ending this demented game. It is the realist in me who comes out at times such as these, and it is for him that I keep the knives sharpened. But my brother, having lost both a finger and two eyes, was of a different mind. As was my beloved Amalia. ... If there was one thing my rather gruesome display achieved, it was to change the lovebirds’ minds. Where before my darling Amalia had only had thought of play, now her mind seemed intent on avenging her pride. My wife always was a most prideful woman, and far be it from me to judge. It was for that very fact that I loved her so. The loss of his finger also changed something within my brother. Whereas before it had been nothing more than a heated chase to prove who was the better man, now it was a matter of survival. Something in my brutish act must’ve frightened him, and I can’t help but blush at the thought, for my brother was never one easily wooed over. One thing was certain, that in spite of my stern warning, the two of them found a way to see each other yet again. By this time, of course, I had instructed our young maid with good care and more than enough financial incentive that should the blind gentleman dare to return, she was to let me know immediately. In fact, if it was in her power, she was to woo him over. She was by no means an ugly woman. Looked rather fetching, in the right light. Other men in my position would’ve no doubt opted for a stiff beating to punish her for her secrecy, and I will admit that, too, has its advantages. You never learn quite as well without one. Nevertheless, a beating wouldn’t have fit my purposes. A limping woman makes for a very poor temptress, indeed. So the next time my brother visited our home, which was roughly three days after I’d chopped off his finger, I was aware of it that very same night. I chose to do nothing, this time. Perhaps it’s not apparent, but I am, in fact, a highly progressive man. A visionary, if I may call myself that. I understand that the world can not survive the way it once did. I’m well aware society no longer functions that way. And yet, I also understand that if society is to advance towards anything meaningful, it must first be allowed to stray from the path. Which is, incidentally, exactly what I did with my wife and my treacherous brother. I could’ve gone after him that evening, and I’m sure he waited up all through the night for my arrival. Must’ve been rather tiring. But then, if I had gone after him that night and if I had severed another limb, where would the lesson have been? Anderson needed time to stray so that he could be reined in at the appropriate moment. As, in fact, did my wife Amalia. And while my pretty servant had had little luck with her womanly task, she’d managed to leave the door open behind her, just a crack, and had listened in on their entire conversation. She revealed to me that my brother was scared. Terrified that indeed, I would come forth in the dark night and cut him up into little bits. For my part, I was rather surprised. While we never knew each other too well, I would have expected my brother to know that much about me. I never go back once I’ve given my word, and I would not shy away from maiming my loved ones to teach them a lesson. While he hadn’t seemed that affected by my taking his eyes, this latest display certainly seemed to have weakened his resolve to love my wife. Of course, the coward would not come out and confess to her completely. My wife’s scorn is a fearsome spectacle. I myself, have been on the receiving end of it once or twice, and I found it a most unpleasant experience. So I suppose my brother wished to preserve whatever dregs were left of his honor, so he appeared to come up with a better idea. Why should they not run away together? Surely, from such a gruesome husband, Amalia should not hesitate to run. And being damned to live with such a beast, no one could condemn her for harboring dreams of escape. I remember bursting out into laughter, as the servant told me this. Once again, it was a clear testament to just how little my brother knew about my family. For my wife would never give a fig about what anyone might think of her. Not God Himself, if He’s there watching. It was my brother’s plan that they should take advantage of my next business trip, or failing that, my next poker game, and run. Naturally, a trip would’ve been ideal because it would have given them a few days’ head-start. But if not, then the game would do, just as long as they could get away together. I may have been a savage, but surely, I would not dare pursue them into the civilized world and exact my revenge, and my father’s money could’ve taken them very far away, indeed. My wife, for her own reasons, found herself consenting to this ploy. Not out of fear, but for want of revenge. In fact, I very much doubt she endured a single moment of pain for my actions. She had all her fury to sustain her through this terrible indignity. For that is the case, if my wife ever did intend to truly leave me, she did so out of resentment and anger, rather than fear. Amalia has not and will not cower, not even when you bring down the stick over her back. “Aren’t you goin’ to stop ‘em, sir?” I remember her asking. Our pretty servant, tasked with an impossible mission, and who was still haunted by the fear that I might one day cut off one of her own fingers. Silly girl. To tell the truth, I found it quite funny, and in better times, I might’ve allowed the maid’s childish reaction to sway me and lighten my own fearsome mood. It seemed that the girl had actually taken to her task seriously. Perhaps on some level, she’d even imagined herself some sort of heroine in this novel of our helter-skelter lives. The chaste, golden-heart maiden who would rescue my blind brother from my wife’s bewitchment and my own tyrannical whims. So much so that when she repeated all this to me, I sensed a certain anger boiling inside her. How audacious – to think that she might be betrayed by this man she’d taken into her head she would marry. It astonishes me to think how the lower classes would settle, even for a man blinded and maimed for his love of another. By lower class, I mean, of course, an inferior state of being, rather than some obscure social denomination. All my siblings, as well as myself, were fathered unto common women, the poor sort, I suppose. Indeed, my father only rose above his station through his own thick skin and cunning. By this, I mean that we are not noble stock. We are newcomers. Les nouveaux riches, as the French call us. Why, you did not imagine I was some eccentric nobleman, did you? I’m as common as dirt, but I came into money early and found that I rather liked it. In any case, it is not the purpose of this note to discuss class or social standing. Merely to inform you of the misfortune that befell our star-crossed lovers. You might by now be wondering why, if I knew so early, did I allow my brother’s crazy scheme to carry on. When I could’ve easily quashed right then and there. Or at least followed him while he was unaware and carved out his heart. It’s the same question that has haunted me for years. Why did I allow them to plan their escape so diligently? After years of careful consideration, the only answer I’ve come to that seems viable is I enjoyed it. Perhaps I found, in my old age, that I, like my wife, liked the taste of blood. Perhaps I let it run wild just to see if I could rein it back in, or if it would evaporate into the atmosphere and leave me a broken man. Ten days after my brother’s insane proposition, I announced to my wife that I should be away on business, the weekend after next. For my brother, I expected him to jump at the opportunity, but as for my wife, I must admit I expected better. Amalia was far too clever not to spot such an obvious move in a game she was an expert at, no less. Yet she either didn’t or chose to overlook it. Perhaps she, too, wanted to see what would happen if they ran. And so the day came, and I bid a loving goodbye to my wife – we were, at this point, masquerading as if the entire incident was behind us – and I went out the door. According to their plan, which our maid had reiterated for me faithfully, the two lovers would not waste a moment. They were to be on the road precisely one hour after I’d left. If anyone called, the maid had been instructed to say Amalia was indisposed, and if I were to call, best to let it ring. To my shame, I’d never been a careful husband, and so I would certainly not be expected to turn back simply because my wife was not answering the phone. You, reader, of course, know that I was not going anywhere and that my wife could play as much as she liked with the phones, it would not matter in the end. My own plan was, as follows, to allow them to cover the first leg of their journey. After all, they planned on stopping at Coventry first and spending the night in an old inn, where my wife had long ago lost her virginity to an old mercenary. This, of course, I knew, and this, my brother was kept oblivious of, much to my amusement. Even a stone-cold viper like my wife still harbored some trace of feeling. And while Coventry did not cover one fifth of their journey, I reckoned it would be enough. So I boarded the train for Coventry and arrived two hours before my wife and her lover would. I watched them from across the station, as they got off the train, arm in arm, and proceeded in the direction of the inn. I, of course, already knew all this by the grace of our darling young maid, who, it seems, had made her intentions clear to Anderson, only to be met with coldness. So naturally, now, there was nothing that could stop her from tearing him apart. And while I had not anticipated the fierceness of this scorned young woman, it made me glad to be alive, in a peculiar way. There is something to be said about things that happen outside of your plans. They sure seem to add a sense of wonder to the world, don’t they? Of course, I’d contacted the elderly couple who owned the inn – the very same who’d been there when my wife had lodged there with her mercenary some thirty years back – and I’d explained my situation to them. Say what you will about my methods, but very few people will side with the deserting wife. I had purposefully excluded from my story the parts where I gouged out my brother’s eyes or chopped off Amalia’s finger. Not for fear that it might make them less kind to me. Quite the contrary, in fact. If the sorrowful tale of a wronged husband won’t sway them, then the brandishing of a well-sharpened knife sure will. So the elderly couple had explained to my brother and my wife that they would not be able to lock their door this night, sadly, because of an issue with the staff. But they shouldn’t worry, for only one other gentleman resided on their floor, and his light had already been out for many hours, so they should have nothing to worry about from him. I’ve often wondered why I chose to lop off my brother’s left foot as I descended upon the lovers that God-awful night. I know other men would’ve no doubt sprung for another, more intimate souvenir. I, myself, had toyed with the idea briefly, but in the end, had abandoned it for something far more elegant. A foot would be symbolic, I reasoned, while any other appendage would merely be crude. My wife, for her part, tried to fight me, and then subsequently, to run, as I sawed off my brother’s foot. No doubt, fearing what I had in store for her. But I’d decided on the train ride to Coventry that I would not separate my wife from any more body parts. This decision, of course, did not rise out of my affection for the woman, but merely out of a sense of propriety. It simply would not do to be seen at the arm of a disfigured woman. And while a missing finger could be a tasteful reminder of my character, any more would not. I suspect you are by now wondering how much longer is left of this gruesome string of events. Not long. I would imagine you still have one or two surprises to discover, squirreled away inside your newfound fortune, so do read on. ... I did not hear from my brother for many years after that unfortunate incident. I’d taken care of any and all possibilities that might arise from my visit at the inn, as has been my habit throughout my life. And so not ten minutes had passed since I’d left the premises that a kindly doctor from the town made his way up to the inn and found my brother unconscious, though very much still alive. I’d met with the good man only that afternoon and had instructed him to call my home in London the next day, which he did. He informed me that they’d been able to rouse my brother fairly quickly and that his wound had been treated so that there would be no cause for concern. I’d paid this gentleman rather handsomely, you see, hence his reluctance to question upon my methods. Once my brother had sufficiently recovered, I heard he left for Spain, as he and my wife had originally intended. There, he passed another three months and then ventured forward to Morocco, which was where he was living many years later when I finally managed to track him down. But surely, you must be wondering what fate befell my playful spouse, who’d run away in the middle of the night. Well, after I left my brother’s side, I spent several hours looking for her. Coventry really isn’t that big a village, as you might know, yet she somehow managed to elude me in spite of my best efforts. I imagine she wanted to seem terrified. But Amalia has never been one who could truly stay away, so I returned with the first train to London, convinced that she would wonder up sooner or later. Which of course she did. I came home one evening, about three days after our joint excursion, to find the light on the patio turned on and a figure rocking gently in one of the chairs. I took it, at first, to be our young servant, but then I saw the girl rush out to greet and inform me that the mistress had come back. My little co-conspirator was all a-fluster, somehow unsure what our stance towards Amalia should be. And I could’ve struck her down then for this presumption of intimacy, but something inside the girl had touched me, so I did my best to display a most cordial smile. Show her as well as the rest of the world how pleased I was at the return of my errant wife. That night, I went out on the patio to greet Amalia and was met with a vicious glare and utter silence. To be honest, I wouldn’t have expected anything less from my beloved. Slowly though, she came around. The fact was, she’d never been in love with my foolish brother, not even for a second. She’d merely toyed with him out of boredom, like a cat sharpening her claws. And once she grew bored of punishing me for my transgression, she began joining me once more on my outings. Dining together and doing all those other little things that couples do to pass their existence. In fact, knowing my Amalia, I imagine part of her had quite enjoyed my gruesome display. Where a more tempered woman might’ve fainted at the thought, Amalia had always liked her game with a lick of blood. And as a dutiful husband, I made sure that blood she should have. Things were peaceful. After the initial novelty of the situation had died down, we settled back into our little routine. We’d moved past the age where we required constant entertainment, and the excitement of the recent months was enough to support us through quite a bit of what came next. I returned to my poker and my various collections of oddities and Amalia went back to tormenting her friends. That is, of course, until my brother’s last letter. As I say, a long time had passed since that night at the inn, long enough even for my brother to have returned to England. After all, I am not a spiteful man, and as long as he lay no further claim to what was not his, I might’ve even allowed him back into our family. For my part, I’d made no effort to look for him. I’d been informed, of course, about his departure for Morocco, but hadn’t kept active tabs on him. I find it unbecoming for a man of my standing. Uncertainty, that is. In the seven or so years that elapsed between the severing of my brother’s foot and this here offering, I’d all but forgotten my brother’s existence, although clearly, he had not forgotten about us. And while he’d made no effort to contact me, he had kept in touch with our sister, Lucrecia. Something I never blamed either of them for, as it was, after all, his prerogative. As for Luce, I never asked her to choose between us. I mentioned, I think, how Luce became a sort of mother to the lot of us, and so it would have been like asking her to choose between her own two children. Impossible. Lucrecia never spoke to me of our brother’s letters. Very rarely mentioned Anderson at all, in fact, and for my part, I never asked. It was a different matter for my wife, whose drawers I regularly had searched, usually by my faithful maid, to ensure that my brother did not still keep in contact with her. To ask her directly would have been easy, and not only that, it would’ve spoiled the fun, as they say. For my wife would’ve never told me. And even if she’d had no word from my brother, as was in fact the case, she would’ve no doubt made it out as if she had. While Amalia herself hadn’t been terribly attached to Anderson, her pride took a great blow when he left and never wrote another word to her. Quite frankly, I think she was aghast that a woman like herself might be forgotten so easily. So I did the gentlemanly thing and steered clear of the subject. There was one other person, however, who did keep in contact with my departed brother. Our youngest brother Hercules had always harbored a childish sense of adoration towards us, his older brothers. He’d often cast us as the parents he’d never had, and out of all of us, Anderson had been the one who’d most indulged this childhood fantasy and, over time, allowed it to develop into something more. I never did grow terribly close with my youngest sibling, and so I was never privy to the particulars. But from what I was able to gather, it seems my brother allowed Hercules’ admiration to carry on well into adulthood and would often play the stern, yet benevolent father to our youngest sibling. A role that suited Anderson poorly, no doubt, since he’d never had a care for anyone but himself. Still, he’d stayed closest to the youth, and in the end, it was that very closeness that proved his undoing. For Hercules came to visit me, one crisp March morning. It was an unusual occurrence, since our brother usually spent most of his time in New York, and rarely ventured to London. New York was, after all, his birthplace, and no amount of coaxing on Lucrecia’s part had ever been able to change that. Yet something in Anderson’s letters must’ve succeeded where all of Luce’s pleas did not, for I woke to find my brother waiting in our drawing-room one morning like it was the most natural thing in the world. I, of course, invited him to breakfast and we spent the better part of an hour exchanging pleasantries and acting as if this was not unusual in the least. But no masquerade can last forever, and in the end, the truth emerged out of my brother almost unbidden. He informed me that he’d come on our brother’s behalf, though not with our brother’s knowledge. While Anderson may have had his moments of stupidity, not even he would have consented to a plot such as this. No, my youngest brother had taken it upon himself to act the Cupid and deliver a most heartfelt message – that despite the passage of time, Anderson was still very much in love with my wife. He’d confessed it to Hercules many times in his letters, saying that his heart had belonged solely to one woman down the years, and that, of course, had been my beloved Amalia. He simply could not get her out of his mind. I must say, the boy spoke with such passion that for a moment, I was almost swayed, myself. “So what is it you desire of me, exactly?” I asked him after the silence had finally fallen. Here, of course, my brother stuttered and deflated. He hadn’t thought things through this far, and so I continued for him. “To abandon my wife, perhaps? Or to send Amalia away to Morocco, so she can be with the hero of her dreams? With this cowardly Don Juan that is our brother?” “Of course not!” my brother exclaimed, and to his credit, I believed him. I doubt he’d considered his actions very thoroughly. In fact, I do not think he’d thought much past such notions as love always prevails, and other such lukewarm non-sense that fills the head of youngsters these days. So after another failed attempt, we abandoned that train of thought entirely, and I invited him to tell me of his dealings in America. A charming country, I’m told, one that I’ve always had half a mind to visit, but never seemed to find the time. Hercules, thinking himself particularly clever, tried to turn us back to the topic of our brother, not once, but three times. In one such attempt, he even went as far as to pull out one of our brother’s countless letters on the matter from his luggage, and so it was that I saw with my very eyes that my brother’s heart still undeniably belonged to Amalia. I’m sure that you, being a clever audience, have realized what happened next, and have no need for me to spell out this rather unpleasant event in our family’s history. Before I left, I consulted with my wife, of course. Amalia, who’d long since come off any momentary whims or passions she might’ve harbored for my brother, advised me not to go to Morocco and just leave the poor man be. He was sad enough already, she argued. Being blind, he was forced to dictate his letters to one of the few boys in his village that could read. Hercules informed me that our brother had had him trained special, just so he could one day send Amalia herself a letter. And that day either hadn’t come yet, or my wife had discarded the letter without even looking to see what was inside. My Amalia had lived a very hard life, and while she’d never had as bad a family as ours, she’d had troubles in her own right. It would take a great man to make her lose her head, and that man would not be my brother. Still, against her advice, I departed for Morocco, intent on ending my brother’s misfortune and for once doing the charitable thing. After all, what was there to look forward to? An eternity spent writing to Hercules about a woman who’d only cared for him for two seconds in the span of a very busy life? I’m sure part of you thinks by now that I am something of a cruel man, but I assure you that is not the case. In this final endeavor, I was convinced that I was doing my brother a favor. And perhaps he thought so, too, for her didn’t fight me when I finally did arrive. He did not oppose the end, and I thought a part of him, at least, must’ve been relieved. I can’t help but imagine that the reason he wrote those letters to our young, impressionable brother of all people, and not, say, to our wiser sister, was that he wanted me to hear about them. And he knew, of course, that if the news should find me, I would find my way to Morocco and finish what I’d started seven years before. If by now you haven’t realized that the reason I fled to Morocco was something more than my brother’s sad obsession, I fear you have not been reading these notes with enough care. While I’d vowed to punish my brother if he should look upon or flirt with my wife, I never said a word about what he carried inside his own heart. I may be a savage, but I’m by no means absurd. No, the reason I went to Morocco to find my brother was both to put an end to his rather obvious suffering and to allow myself some time to think. It seems that since I began writing these notes, I have fallen into something of an unfortunate predicament myself. And what I hoped this trip to achieve, I suppose, is to award me some much-needed detachment, so I might extract myself from the heart before things get too complicated. Over the course of the past years, I’ve found myself somewhat besotted with our young maid. Much less young now, of course, but then again, I myself am an even older man than I was when all this began. And perhaps I wouldn’t have worried so, had she not confessed to me, some two months before Hercules’s arrival, that she felt much the same toward me. Our maid has always had something of an obsessive character and it seems she rapidly transferred affections from one brother to another. While some might find that endearing, I’ve little doubt that my wife will not, and that she will come for me, with a cleaver, if needs be, just as I came for her. There has always been a madness that’s bound us, and I now harbor very little hope of escaping my wife’s wrath. I write this last note from aboard the ship that carries me back home. You see, I can guarantee it is my last because I have no more bits of my brother left to leave you. That, however, doesn’t mean it’s the last one of its kind. It’s quite possible, in fact, that the next box you find might belong to myself, or failing that, to our pretty, young maid. I don’t suppose I’ve earned much sympathy from you over the course of these notes, but I do ask that you treat our remains with kindness. I never meant to fall in love with our maid. As you can no doubt see, it has made things infinitely more complicated. But then again, I imagine, neither did my brother. And it occurs to me now that things might’ve been so much easier for all involved if I’d allowed my wife to elope with my brother, as per their original plan, and I’d stayed here with our young maid. But then, it has never been our way to go peacefully. So it is with a heavy heart (nestled comfortably in my burlap sack) that I must bid you farewell now, for the Captain tells me we’re nearing land, and with it, my own grisly fate.
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