A news story from Esquire magazine:
I was going to kill my brother. If he took another step toward our father’s house, I was going to slip off my backpack, unsheathe the knife inside, and drive the eight-inch blade through his sternum. I counted the moves, rehearsed them in my head.
One. Two. Three.
It was the fall of 2011. I was twenty-five and in the belly of a hollow darkness. It was a year into Joshua’s illness and we still didn’t know what he had, only that it had dramatically changed his perception of our parents and me. We were no longer his loving family but murderers, monsters, pedophiles. Believing our father was a hypnotist who had cast a spell on him, my brother had shown up at Dad’s riverfront bungalow in Muskoka, two hours north of Toronto, seeking revenge.
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