The other-me is something else now.

Something else.

A thing of cold silence, dead in the heart . . . not me. I’m still up here, looking down . . . watching this thing-that-isn’t-quite-me-anymore . . . watching as it drops the bloodied rock and picks up the hillbilly’s rifle, not even glancing at the monster slumped in the snow beside him, not caring if it’s dead or alive. The other-me just gets to its feet, holding the rifle at its waist, and turns to the sidekick/brother.

The flashlight on the rifle is still turned on, and as the other-me levels the rifle at the sidekick/brother, the white beam lights up his fear-stricken face. Without taking his wide-open eyes off the other-me, he takes a hesitant step back, half stumbling over something, and raises his hands in the air. He’s so frozen with fear that he doesn’t realize he’s still holding the dead deer, and it just hangs there from his raised hand, swinging lifelessly in the black-and-white air.

The snow’s started falling again, fine and light in the dark.

“Lay it down,” the other-me says to the sidekick/brother.

“What?”

“The deer . . . lay it down on the ground, and do it carefully. If you drop it, I’ll shoot you.”

The sidekick/brother doesn’t understand — it’s dead . . . it’s nothing . . . what does it matter if I drop it or not? — but when a crazy kid with a loaded rifle tells you to do something, you don’t ask questions, do you? You just do what he says. So the sidekick/brother slowly stoops down, still holding the deer by its horns, and lays it carefully in the snow.

“Now turn around,” the other-me says when the sidekick/brother has straightened up again.

“What? Why . . . ? What are you going to —?”

“Do it.”

The other-me has raised the rifle to its shoulder and is aiming it directly at the sidekick/brother’s head. The sidekick/brother can see the cold-blooded truth in the other-me’s eyes — it will shoot him if he doesn’t turn around — and he knows he has no choice. His mouth is bone-dry now, his throat so tight he can barely breathe, and as he awkwardly shuffles around, he can feel the terrible thud of the bullet hitting him in the back . . . he can physically feel it . . . it’s there, right there, between his shoulder blades . . . and he can see himself collapsing to the ground . . . legs buckling . . . body crumpling . . . dropping dead into the snow . . . like a gutshot deer.

The other-me waits until the sidekick/brother is fully turned around, then it pauses for a moment, looking down at the hillbilly-monster’s boots. They’re large, at least a size nine or ten, which normally would be far too big for it, but its right foot is so swollen now that even a size ten would be too small for it.

The other-me takes a final look at the sidekick/brother. It sees him standing there, his raised hands trembling, his hunched shoulders rigid with tension — braced for the terrible thud of the bullet — and the other-me knows it doesn’t have to worry about him. He won’t try to follow us . . .

Us?

It?

Him?

Me?

I don’t know anymore.

I don’t know what’s happening to me.