Splitters



Our story is a painful one. The one of My brother and I, that is. It is one full of dejection and despair, but also one of rebirth and a new cause. What is this new cause? What is said purpose that now drives us to do what we do, that is frowned upon by the masses? All of these answers will come in good time. I must first tell the story of the pitch black darkness that preceded the blinding light of the dawn.

I am a very pretty girl. No, I'm not one of those self-titled, conceited bitches whose only goal is to further herself. My beauty is of pure genetic serendipity. My brother didn't necessarily get the short end of the DNA stick as it happens; At thirteen, he had already been in three relationships. We were both super popular honor students. Most likely to succeed. Best all-around. You name it, we had probably already attained its status. But under all of this pronounced fame and acclamation, a dark secret was housed.

Our alcoholic father had been abusing us since we were very young. He made us do horrible things. Forced consumption of hot sauce, waterboarding, and beating us until our skin was dabbled with blood were just a few. Our mother didn't care. Often she'd just laugh and encourage our father to continue these heinous actions. My brother and I were convinced things couldn't get worse. They did.

After our thirteenth birthday, our father started bending us over every night. He said it was "the right age" in order for us not to suffer any serious injuries. What a bold-faced lie. He took advantage over all of our orifices. All three of mine and both of my brother's. It never affected my brother like it did me. The fact that he was heterosexual didn't cause him too much pain outside of rectal bleeding and a moderate case of PTSD. For me it did so much more. I could never have sex with boys I dated. I was more than likely rendered infertile (I have never checked; I probably should). This went on for around a year. Then my brother and I got an idea. No, we didn't come up with an idea. We had reached an epiphany.

Naturally, to say we were sick of our predicament would be an understatement. We thirsted for revenge like a child in a third world country thirsts for clean water. The atrocities committed upon my poor brother and I were too great to involve anyone else in; we had to avenge ourselves. We soon formulated macabre, yet fitting plan for sweet revenge.

My brother was very interested into medieval torture devices. Not just Iron Maidens and such, but really weird shit. There was this one that stuck out particularly in his mind. Apparently the Egyptians had made this pear shaped device which entered the nose and split the head open. Since our parents weren’t exactly giving us migraines, my brother invented a device that would exact (and exceed) the pain they had placed upon us.

It had a seven inch drill that protruded out of the front of the device. Stemming from the base of the drill were four slim, turned out fish hooks. It was powered by two handles. When you cranked the first one, the drill digs deep into whatever your intended target is. Once the drill is inside, you crank the second handle. This is definitely the most enjoyable part. The fishhooks spread out in their four respective directions, tearing whatever the drill went inside open.

After two Pepsis and some hugs and tears, we knew exactly what we were going to do. Armed with the device and two duffel bags full of clothes, we headed downstairs to turn our gory fantasy into an even gorier reality.

As usual, our father was passed out drunk on the couch. Our mother wouldn’t be coming in for her late-night snack for another hour so we had all the time for vengeance we needed. Slowly, my brother pulled down our dad’s pants and underwear. I had the relatively daunting task of spreading his cheeks open as my brother put the contraption in place.

Gleefully, he cranked the drill end past his anus and well into his rectum. By now he was trying to scream, but I had gagged him when we found him (I was pretty strong for a girl my age). A stream of brown-red blood now ran down past his legs. Knowing that he had caused much more pain to me than to him, my brother let me crank the second handle. He attempted to scream the loudest now, begging for mercy once I twitched the handle, the mechanical gears signaling part two of his unbearable pain. Before I really even started the damage, I asked him this question:

“Where was our mercy? What breaks did you give us? You punished us for doing nothing, and now we’re punishing you for causing this pain.”

I tugged it back a little to settle the fishhooks in there. The blood now ran in a greater quantity and was noticeably redder. The fishhooks were audibly tearing his innards apart, breaking he had any resolve he may have had after the initial penetration. His organs contrasted vibrantly to the stained corduroy couch. His stomach split, his acid burning a puddle in the couch.

I embraced my brother and gave him a soft kiss on the cheek to congratulate him. All of a sudden, something took over me. Something inside. One kiss turned to two and then three. We pushed aside our father's bloody, festering corpse to make hot, sweet spontaneous love on the same couch we had committed murder on. When we did it, I felt safe. I felt comforted. I felt truly alive.

He held me for a few moments after. It was a tender moment of sibling love that I cherished from that day forward. We had fought on occasion, but now we had little cause for quarrels of importance. Our deeply rooted and deeply passionate love for each other and revenge pushed aside any former reservations as we silently crept into our mother’s room.

She was fast asleep - or so it seemed. Her Oxycontins were split on her nightstand; her pill addiction may have gotten the best of her. I checked her pulse. Dead. The conclusion that my brother and I came to is that she had drugged herself to death when she heard our father’s procedure going on in the other room. The craven whore didn’t even escape because she knew we’d find her. Taking our bags, my brother and I set up shop in a nearby abandoned warehouse.

We knew we would have to move from place to place. Seeing that we were now fugitives, there was no home we could go to. My brother had called three of his friends over to discuss a proposal with me that he thought I’d like. Remember when I mentioned my brother and I’s renewed purpose? Our blinding dawn? It is about to unfold.

My brother’s friends already had to leave behind their lives at home and at school behind for this cause. He suggested that as a result of our mother’s cowardly escape from seemingly inevitable agony, we form a society that exacts this agony unto all others. I readily agreed, and now for our purpose and current whereabouts.

We are the splitters. We know the average college or high school student will be unsuspecting enough to where they won’t commit suicide out of fear. Because of our mother’s actions, we want to ensure that everyone feels the pain we have. Our numbers eventually snowballed, and now this unit is about ten members strong. Why do I say this unit? We are based in rural Ohio and serve as leadership for our other chapters. We currently have chapters in twenty eight states and fifty nine cities. Each night we take two or three, bestowing ineffable anguish upon them in the process. Based on the range of each unit’s forces, you more than likely are the next, reader.

Prepare to be split.

-Dubiousdugong