Page 123 of The Art of Being a Psychopath

I knew what’d happened tonight would haunt him forever. His brother was a tortured soul, but Alex still loved him. And after hearing their story, I knew his guilt would go with him to his grave. The battle might be over, but the war would never be won. It was a fight that was unconquerable. There were no winners here today.

Alex knelt beside his brother for a while, sitting in silent respect for the life he’d lost, the childhood he’d been robbed of, and the future he’d destroyed.

Then, with a heavy sigh that I felt in my heart, he pushed himself to stand.

He walked over to me with hurt in his eyes and the weight of regret evident in the slump of his shoulders. When he reached me, he knelt down and pulled my head into his chest, kissing me as he whispered, “I’m so sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.”

He held me for a few seconds, rocking me in his arms. Then he took a deep breath and lifted his head. “Let me get this off you,” he said, pulling the tape off my ankles first.

After, he moved to my wrists, hissing when he saw the blood oozing over my hands from the deep cuts of the plastic. He didn’t have a knife, so he leaned down and bit through the tie, then kissed my bloody wrists, whispering more apologies.

Finally, he pulled the tape from around my head and mouth, moving slowly and with care, so as not to pull my hair or hurt me.

And when my mouth was free, I sucked in lungfuls of air, then gasped, “I’m so sorry, Alex. I’m so sorry.”

Alex hugged me, telling me, “You don’t need to say sorry.”

But I felt like I did, and I cried as I told him, “I love you. I’m so sorry and I love you.”

He started to cry too, as he buried his head in my neck.

“I love you too.”

We clung to each other, and I wished the whole gruesome scene around us would fade away. That we could escape this life. Transport ourselves away from it all and just disappear.

But we couldn’t.

His brother’s body lay behind us, a horrific reminder of what we’d endured tonight.

“We need to call the police,” I urged.

But Alex shook his head.

“No. No police. I don’t want them involved. No police. No inquiry. No trial. No circus. No newspaper reports. Nothing.”

“But we can’t just leave him here and pretend this didn’t happen.”

Alex hung his head, and in a quiet voice he said, “He already dug a grave. I think I need to make use of it.”

“You don’t know what you’re saying or what you’re doing. You can’t bury him here. You can’t do that to yourself.”

I didn’t care about Arran. But I cared about Alex, so fucking much it hurt. I didn’t want him to have to go through anymore trauma tonight. He’d been through enough.

He peered at me with haunted eyes as he said, “I have to. I have to do this. And I need to do it alone. I need to put my brother to rest.”

What could I say to that?

I wanted to call the police, but I also understood where he was coming from. This was his twin brother. A brother he still felt responsible for, even in death. If he wanted to bury him this way, I wouldn’t stop him.

How could I?

So, I nodded and stayed on the floor as Alex stood up.

He walked over to his brother and knelt beside him.

“I can’t lift you like I want to,” he said, speaking to Arran. “But I know, if you were here, you’d tell me to just fucking drag you to where you needed to be, so...” Alex stood up, took hold of Arran’s ankles and started to drag his body across the forest floor towards the grave.

I turned away.