Bryn

By Jennifer Crowfoot

Hello ladies, name’s Bryn. I'm wealthy, gorgeous, sexy as sin.
I'm the man your mummas' warned you 'bout.
So, my pretty bitches you'd better watch out.
One sultry look from my emerald eyes.
Some whispered words in your ear.
You'll never know what hit you, when I fulfil all your fears.
I'm the monster you're warned about.
A lurking beast in a sharp suit.
I'll stalk you with my accent. Dazzling smile.
Overwhelm you with abundant charm.
I’ll make sure you stay awhile.
I'll disarm you over shared drinks, flirty small-talk.
‘It’s okay ladies,’ I’ll lie with my eyes, ‘there’s no harm.’
My glossy exterior will lure you in.
But by then, you won't stand a chance.
I'm untouchable.
A God.
I'm your worst nightmare come to life.
I'm Bryn Morgan.

* * *

Life has been good to me, since emigrating to Australia from Wales as a young lad of fifteen. Yes, very sweet indeed.
With my dark looks, lilting accent, mesmerising emerald eyes and sexual prowess, the girls, and later on the ladies, flocked to me.
Like blind flies to shite.
Yes, life was very good.
Until.
Her.
She was married. But I knew she didn't love him.
She wanted me.
I saw it in her stunning violet eyes the moment we met. She was hot for me. Her body betrayed her desire.
I didn't love her, not my style.
I didn't want to spend my life prone at her feet like a lapdog worshipping every little deed and word she deigned to toss my way.
I just wanted to own her.
Possess her.
Make her mine in every way possible.
Own her last breath.
Last tear.
Last beat of her heart.
She. Was. Mine.
Unfortunately, those ugly vindictive Bitches of Fate, had something else in mind for me.

My name is Bryn Morgan and I'm your worst nightmare, although you don't know it yet.
Society and the Law would say I'm not right in the head, and try and hide me away.
Superior and more intelligent beings are viewed with fear, I get it.
But I don't have to like it.
So, I say to them, "Fu*k you and the whore you rode in on." Perhaps you'd like to come and visit with me, and I'll demonstrate the finer points of my case in greater detail.
To your everlasting detriment and regret. Because nobody shows me contempt, or disregard and lives to see another sunrise.
It's the nature of the beast.

*This is not a love story. There is no happy, dreamy ending to be found at the end. It is a story of one man's obsession with another man's woman. It is the twisted and dark story of his gradual decline into the depravities that exist in his nature, and the consequences that his covetous lust and murderous urges bring for others around him.*

**Australian English. Does contain coarse language and violence /brutal treatment which may be distressing / offensive to some readers. Please read with caution.**

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Crowfoot
• Release date: Jan 19, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370966417

Jennifer Crowfoot

Married, Jennifer lives with her husband and her spoilt, feline fur-baby, Hades, in beautiful rural N.S.W, Australia.When not writing, Jennifer can be found with her nose buried in a book.She also has a collection of self-published books on Amazon.? ? ?

Book preview

PREFACE

Sticks and Stones

Bryn Morgan – 1994: aged ten years.

Small hamlet in the County of Gwynedd — North Wales.

I bend forward, my pale, slight body clothed in only my thin vest and underpants, the bare wooden floor cold against my dirty, naked feet. The tip of my nose squishes flat as I press it to the small circle rubbed clear of the dust coating my attic-bedroom window. Despite the early morning chill present in the air and on the glass, and the raised rash of gooseflesh peppering my skin, I’m not cold. For the moment, I’m not feeling anything.

I’m hollow.

I’m not sad.

I’m not happy.

I’m not excited or hopeful.

I just am.

Placing my palms flat on the dirty glass by the side of my head, I gaze outside, unblinking as I faze out, switching off the irritating fox-like screeches and threats of Mam and Myfanwy, my chwaer — my sister — ordering me to hurry and dress for school. Or else.

I snort, my exhaled disdain for their threats fogging up the tiny patch of clear glass, before magically clearing like the fake tears in Myfanwy’s eyes when she gets her way.

Stupid, ugly cows, I whisper to my confidants, the raindrops. The fat wet tears plink-plink against the glass in solidarity.

As the raised voices from downstairs once again, forcefully bleed into my head, raking and scraping like sharp teeth across my thoughts, interrupting my precious solitude, the flames smouldering in my belly leap and crackle. The fiery heat burns like holy fire in the centre of my chest, the flames licking and tickling my throat, making me want to cough.

I clear my throat with a quick noisy grunt, the heat from my inner fire making sweat pop across my forehead, and above my top lip. My splayed fingers, the cuticles dirty and split, the nails gnawed down to stubs, automatically scrape soundlessly across the glass, curling into white-knuckled animal claws, as my mind focuses on the whiny tone of my chwaer.

Apart from Mam, she’s the one other person I hate most in the world.

She’s pretty.

Properly dressed.

Well-fed.

Her every whim and want, pampered and indulged.

She’s loved.

Wanted.

She’s wanted.

Staring out through the hole in the looking glass, my mind switches off, their voices fading to a humming drone in the background. The hypnotic sounds of rainwater gurgling along the guttering, and gushing down the downpipe just outside my bedroom, overrides them completely.

Sticking out my hip, I rest my weight on one foot and tilt my head, my forehead squeaking on the glass with the movement as I mash my face even closer to the window. My hot breath paints the surface opaque and blinking slowly, I control my exhalations as my lashes brush across the cool surface while I study, and follow with my eyes, the many rivulets drunkenly meandering their way past my face.

These watery tracks distort my usual view of the crazy patchwork quilt of mauves, greens and pinks that the various heathers and assorted moor grasses have sewn together and blanketed over the land around my house.

I sigh, my scrawny chest rising and falling with the weight of the dark thoughts that have begun to plague me in greater strength lately. Satisfying visions of Myfanwy laying still amongst the rocks and heather, her long, dark hair spread out around her like a halo, her pale green eyes dulled and gazing heavenward, her pretty face and pouty lips as white as the new snowfall.

But best of all, is the lovely carmine painting her jawline, neck and chest; the source of this beauty, the jagged gash on the side of her caved-in head.

My door slams shut, and I spin away from the window, my images of a permanently silenced Myfanwy vanishing like a popped soap bubble. Mam stands there like a posturing Ram; nostrils flared, eyes bright and shining like she’s got a fever, and her face glowing red like the coals in the AGA of a night.

I don’t need to look, but I do. My eyes drop to her hand.

Her fingers are tightly wrapped around the smooth branch of a Rowan tree, her work-roughened knuckles bone-white. The length of wood, sways and whips through the air at her side like one of the pirate swords I’ve seen in picture books at school.

Swish-Swish. My ears pop with the sound of it cutting and slicing through the chilly atmosphere of my room.

I stand tall, my bony shoulders stiffening, my arms hanging loosely by my outer thighs, my knees strong and brave. Beneath my vest, my heart-rate remains steady, my breathing comes slow and easy. I know the drill by now, and I’m not scared of her, or her naughty stick.

You dirty little bastard. Why do you make me come up here all the time? Her flinty grey eyes narrow as if she’s seeking the answer in my blank face.

Both Myfanwy and I had inherited Tad’s emerald eyes, but I’d also been gifted his raven coloured hair. Whereas Myfanwy had Mam’s chocolate tresses.

She snarls and spit flies over her mean lips. What, nothing to say for yourself boy?

She never calls me son, always boy. Not that I care. She can call me whatever she likes, my need to have her acknowledge me passed the moment I stopped sucking milk from a bottle and quit shitting my pants.

The endearment probably gives her heartburn, I randomly muse.

She advances on me and even though it’s early, I smell the strong chemical-like fumes of Tad’s special medicine on her nasty hot breath.

I’d tried it once, last year, when they’d made me stay home from church so I didn’t give the other parishioners my red rash and fever. It wasn’t much of a medicine. I’d still had a million red spots, and a raging temperature, after choking down three big gulps. And going down it’d tasted worse than Mam’s horrible cabbage soup.

I’d run outside and thrown up all over her flowers.

Mam whips the branch backwards, and then arcs it forward, tearing me from my memories. It makes a solid cracking noise, cleaving the thick air in half like a blade through soft cheese. Her smelly breath is laboured, and I notice the whistle she makes through her nose with each ragged inhale.

Feeling nothing at her relentless approach, I keep my eyes trained on her and remain silent, a fact which enrages her further. Her lips curl, and muttered curses drip over her bottom lip and fall to the floor, their imagined sounds, like water droplets hitting the AGA’s searing hob plate.

* * *

With the boredom of another school day behind me, I throw my second-hand bag ysgol by my unmade bed and run downstairs, ignoring the spikes of fresh pain in my arse-cheeks and thighs. With a swift glance to check for my sister’s constantly spying eyes, and seeing no one, I walk into the kitchen and step over to the table. Lifting the edge of the muslin cloth away from the plate beneath, I snatch one of Mam’s freshly baked Bice ar y Maen from off the chipped porcelain which just so happens to be loaded with them.

But, I know they’re not for me. These treats are meant for Tad and Mam and stupid Myfanwy. Mam would whip the skin off my already reddened arse if she caught me. But I’m too clever for her; she’s never caught me stealing food yet.

A lad has to eat, I tell the empty kitchen as I take another one and shove the lot in my mouth, my jaws working overtime to chew it up and swallow it as I make my way outside.

Nibbling at the cake’s fruity, sugary-topped yumminess, I keep my eyes peeled for foxes or hares as I trek across the heath and down towards the Afon Mawddach (or what I’d also come to know many years later on in English, as the river Mawddach.)

The annoying light drizzle which sucked out the sunshine from the day, has now passed, leaving everything soaked and muffled of sound. I could almost believe I was deaf at the dull sounds the world around me produces with its dripping coating of silvery teardrops.

This combined with the recalled voice of Mam as she screeched drunkenly at me this morning, all twist and twine together to paint the grassy meadows and moors in a gloomy shade of granite, with a thick coating of hatred.

A shade which runs parallel to my mood.

My hands curl into fists by my side, and my teeth clench so hard my jaw begins to ache. Around and around in my skull, her words bounce like a ricocheting bullet. Words which were timed to be delivered in-between each harsh stroke of the well-worn cane she favours for teaching me manners.

One never used on Myfanwy.

Only me.

Useless little stupid brat.

I wish you’d never been born.

Things would be so much easier without you Bryn.

Why can’t you be good like Myfanwy?

Ten years previously, Mam had gone into labour with a pregnancy she hadn’t wanted. She’d been a few weeks early, and instead of Tad being there to take her to the Hospital, she’d pissed her waters all over the stone kitchen floor when he was out tending sheep somewhere along the bottom slopes of the Snowdonia Mountains.

And so, alone of medical help, except for the company of my — at the time, four-year-old chwaer; I began my violent entrance into this life.

Like the hard shit I’d later grow up to become, I’d been pushed out between Mam’s spread thighs in a spirited gush of bloody fluid; serenaded into this cold bastard of a world by her stubborn grunts of pain, keening curses, and Myfanwy’s cries of terror.

Amid this feminine circus, I’d made my grand entrance into the world as a red-faced, screaming and filthy babe, a dark head of wet hair topping a quivering and screeching body full of latent fury. I lay sticky and bloodied atop our centuries old kitchen table as Mam sat up, washed herself, then me, before wrapping me and placing me in a small cradle which had been passed down through generations of her family.

How do I know the facts of my own birth? I know, because I’ve heard it a bazillion times as Mam snarls it at me in the grip of one of her rages.

The large, sturdy piece of furniture which had served as her makeshift birthing-bed, was from Tad’s side of the family. And as he’d told it, it had sat in front of our old boot-polish black AGA for at least one billion years.

Not that I cared for ugly old family junk, or its story.

All I knew was that thanks to the tip of my pocket knife, Tad’s arse-ugly family table now bore my mark. The name of Bryn Morgan, now proudly strewn amongst the dirt encrusted scars, gouges and scrapes that generations of mouldy old Morgans had marked it with.

With the bitter words of Mam on repeat in my head, I angrily push my way through thigh-high thistles and grasses, my trousers growing wet as I nimbly make my way down the grassy embankment and step onto the rockery that carpets both sides of the stream.

In the process of stomping along the river bank, my raggedy old lace-up black boots viciously kick out at the smaller grey rocks which litter this lonely spot.

Stopping, I crouch and grab an orange-sized rock at my feet, before straightening. Frogs croak in some sort of frog singing contest as I twist, draw my arm back and toss it towards the swiftly flowing water, hoping I’ve hit one of those big old frogs on its pointy fat frog-head.

The water surface, usually peaceful, and transparent like a continuous sheet of glass, is now dark and menacing as it reflects the gloom of the scowling steel sky above. My rock disappears at the same time that an exploding gush of water rises upwards like a fountain, the sound of my fantastic rock throwing skills makes a loud kerplunk and I watch as ripples twirl outwards in ever-widening rings of circles.

Hints of silver fins and snouts breach the water’s moving surface as the resident salmon, trout and turtles scurry about just below the surface, their never-ending hunt for food driving them on.

The greedy bastards.

I look away, scuffing my dirty hands down my thighs once, and then twice, as I continue downstream, my path leading me towards the small copse of trees, and the snare I’d set late yesterday after school. My brows knit together and I shove my hands down into my side pockets.

I hope I’ve got something worthwhile this time. I’m sick of catching hares and cats.

Skipping sideways, I kick out, my right leg shooting forward and crossing over the left. Whoosh. Another apple-sized rock sails off down the bank, landing by the water’s edge as the toe of my boot connects with it. I whistle in appreciation at my superb Rugby skills.

And Bryn scores the winning goal for Wales, I whoop.

My eyes narrow as I glance up. Covetous fat clouds crouch low over the landscape, like the stupid little snivelling snots at school, their chubby overfed faces shiny with sweat in the overheated room as they jealously guard their lunches.

Greedy pigs. Who wants their stupid lunches anyway? I growl. The tumble of clouds hug the craggy peaks of the Snowdonia range situated on one side of where I stand before the Pont spanning the wide stretch of water, and the tall sentries of the Coed y Brenin on the other, their chunky bulk hiding the mountains’ saw-toothed peaks from view.

My threadbare and over-patched clothing hangs from my skinny frame like Mam’s laundry on a windless day, and I kick out at another rock pretending its Myfanwy in her well-fitting school clothing, her sneering face mocking me as I’m forced to wear some other little bastard’s ill-fitting castoffs.

I approach the dim shadows that swirl beneath the bridge. The darkness beckons me and I quicken my step, my boots making the rocks underfoot clink as they shift and then resettle into place. A familiar voice calls out and I pause beneath the shelter of the span above me.

Bryn? Where are you?

Speak of the Devil and he (or in this case, she) will appear. I stoop and palm a hefty rock. Bryn, you better answer me if you know what’s good for you, you useless dirty brat, she threatens. Come closer, I beg silently, my fingers tightening on the sharp, brittle edges of the ancient rock as visions of sticky red blood fill my head.

My lips peel back, my breaths whistling in and out through gritted teeth. The rock sits in my palm so perfectly, it’s weight feels like an extension of my hand. My stomach tangles and knots with the first stirrings of expectation, excitement and warmth, as she continues to yell out threats of telling Mam and Tad that I’ve come to the water alone, when I know I’m not allowed.

Her yipping fades as she goes searching upriver from where I stand, my mind and body at one with the shifting, whispering shadows. Disappointment floods me and a sound like a dog’s snarl passes over my taut lips at the loss. Although, I’m hazy and confused as to what it is that I’ve lost.

It’s roughly an hour later that I find out, and my life unexpectedly finds its true purpose. The epiphany of this discovery fills the hollowness inside me with an insatiable hunger that only the cries of pain, and copious flow of blood will manage to ease.

* * *

The yowls and frantic yips and barks, reach my ears a few minutes before the tree with the snare set to a low hanging branch, comes into view. I lick my lips, and my heartrate picks up, as I realise I’ve managed to finally catch something worthy of my budding talents.

Patting my pocket, the presence of my pocketknife calms me. Its blade has never played with anything larger than a hare, frog, lizard or stray cats and kittens. Although, cats aren’t usually as trusting, or easy to capture as stupid kittens, which by their very nature assume that every hand held out to them is friendly.

I don’t usually bother setting up snares for the animals closer to home. I always manage to lure them to me with offerings of stolen cakes and biscuits, and later as they trust me, soothing soft words. By the time they realise that I’m not their saviour, but simply another predator, it’s too late for them.

Not bothering to hide the sound of my boots stomping over the carpet of wet forest litter, or the crack of branches whipping back into place as I push through them, I tip my head to the side and smile coldly as I step into a small clearing and gaze down on my prey.

As it sees me, the fox’s rubbery lips roll back and his black snout crinkles as sharp teeth are bared in a posturing motion. Snarls and low growls rumble up from deep within its fluffy throat in an effort to convince me to stay away.

My lips stretch as my smile widens. I don’t think I’m radiating warm, fuzzy friendliness if the fox’s screech of panic is an indicator. Not that I care what the smelly animal thinks. He won’t be thinking it for long anyway. I glance around noting the fading light. It’ll be dark soon and I’ll need to have my fun and get home before someone finds me and puts a stop to my secret games.

Walking over to a tree close by, I grab and wriggle a sturdy branch up and down until I can snap it cleanly away from the trunk. Gripping it loosely in my fist, I return the few steps to my original place before the trapped fox.

Spreading my feet shoulder width apart, I stand tall, the stick hanging harmlessly by my grey-pant covered thigh. I might be thin, but I’m above average height for a ten-year-old and I’ve never shied away from using this fact to my advantage when it suits me. It’s such a rush when I look down on the other boys at school; even the older ones will cross to the opposite side of the room or playground to avoid me.

The fox whines and violently tugs its body backwards, its pointed head flicking from side to side.

I inhale the pungent stench of fear drifting from it. It’s pissed itself. My eyes coldly graze over its hind legs noting the wet fur. It twists and tugs even more frantically against the wire harness, tiring itself out, and in the process unknowingly losing a fight it’ll never, ever win.

I take a step forward. Not happening Mr Fox, I sing-song, the stout stick in my hand swishing through the chill air in an imitation of Mam’s demonstration this morning.

My eyes rake icily over the whining, struggling fox, noting how the wire digs into its fur as it hugs it so tightly around its ribs, the snare’s noose nestling snuggly behind its spindly front legs. Dirt is flicked in messy sprays beneath, behind and to the side of its small frame, the remnants from the trench it’s dug in a mindless effort to somehow escape the strangling hold.

Honey-coloured eyes widen in a mixture of fright and false bravado as I rhythmically tap the ground around my boots, dislodging the mottled leaf-litter. Digging the end of the stick into the soft, moist earth, I flick up a mixture of crumbly mud, fat wet leaves and tiny rocks, aiming the sticky, mulch-goo at the fox’s head.

He tosses his head wildly to the side, but he can’t avoid my skilful aim. Long pointed jaws, stretch wide. Mud and leaves speckle the orange-red fur on his face as his jaws open and close rapidly in terror, while high-pitched growls vomit out of his mouth as if warning me to go away.

I laugh at him, the sound muffled by the damp foliage surrounding us. Very funny, you dumb animal. Now… I swish the stick at him. He growls, black lips trembling, …we’re going to play a game Mr Fox, I tell him, my stick once again digging and flicking goo-mixture at his head and frantically wriggling body.

Pulling the branch out of the wet ground with a sucking noise, I walk closer, careful to avoid the snapping white teeth as I poke and prod at his furry body with the pointed end. How’s that feel Mr Fox? Have you been a dirty, bad fox? I bet you have.

I raise the makeshift cane high above my head, and bending my back, I swing it down, aiming for its spine. Over and over I flog it, my hatred and frustration bleeding from every pore in my body. I close my eyes as I swing, and the fox vanishes, leaving in its stead the vicious sparkling eyes, sneers and never-ending sly taunts of Mam and Myfanwy.

Horrible dirty animal.

Thwack-Thwack.

I hate you.

Thwack-Thwack.

You shouldn’t even exist.

Thwack-Thwack.

I’m panting heavily and the scrawny muscles in my arms, back and belly burn. A warm sheen of sweat coats my face and steams up the skin beneath my school clothes, but I refuse to ease up.

They’re still making noise.

I want them to shut up.

My mind makes a pop and explodes with a hissing noise. I groan and open my eyes. The copse is shimmering with a red light as hot wetness coats my face. I blink away the red rubies sparkling on the tips of my eyelashes without breaking stride.

My arm continues to rhythmically rise and fall.

Up and down.

Up and down.

Once again, it’s the fox I see writhing and screaming before me…the two women have vanished like smoke on the wind, escaping my juvenile wrath.

Just shut up and die won’t you, I grunt, the words tearing shreds from the lining of my throat as they explode from my mouth.

But instead of doing as I demand, the stubborn animal screams and squirms, its body twisting in the grip of the wire snare, its claws scrabbling furiously in the wet ground as it searches for a way to escape my fury.

I drop the stick and reach into my pocket.

* * *

I toss the two lengths of bloodied stick into the water, one after the other, my head tipping to the side, my chin length hair sweeping over my shoulder as I watch them float away with the swirling current like Viking longboats. Losing interest, I crouch and bend forward, thoroughly washing my hands in the chill waters before splashing my face and scrubbing it. Dipping my head, I pull the hem of my jumper up and scruff it roughly over my face before dropping it into place.

Twisting, I reach for the pocketknife set on the wet gravel near my boot and pick it up.

Gripping the thick edge of the blade, I peel it away from its sticky recessed channel, and hold it beneath the surface, carefully cleaning the smelly dark blood off the blade with the thumb and index finger of my right hand. My fingers pause in their cleaning, and I stare at the water in front of me, transfixed as shades of death swirl in eddies and then drift away from the bank as the current catches them and carries them downstream; their journey following in the path of the broken stick.

Footsteps crunch and ping on the rocks behind me. The sound of distressed hiccupping breaths twirl around me, touching me with electric fingers and seeping into the hollow pit inside me. So, she found me after all. Taking my time, I keep my curved back to her as I finish cleaning my blade, before wiping it dry in two long sweeps across my sleeved forearm, and lovingly folding the blade back into its metal cradle.

Leaning to the side, I slide it back into my pocket, stand and calmly turn around.

I cock my head to the side, my face schooled into a blank look as I stare into wide green eyes; mirrors of my own.

A look of absolute disgust, horror, hatred and fear flashes in waves across her pallid face. Her nose crinkles up and her eyes flash with unholy hell fire as she points a trembling finger at me and howls, I saw you. I SAW YOU. She sobs and in the dying light of the day my eyes follow the tracks of the fat tears as they roll down the side of her nose. "You’re a sick boy, Bryn. Sick. I’m telling Mam and Tad what you do."

I smirk. I don’t think so, you sow.

She rubs the back of her hand quickly over both of her eyes and drops it to her side, her hand shaking.

I know you hurt poor little animals, Bryn. I’ve seen the stiffened, mutilated remains left on the moor, not even ten minutes’ walk from home. I’m not stupid, no predator or Falcon leaves their little bodies in such condition. Shuddering, she chokes back a cry. I saw what you did to that poor fox. You trapped it and killed it in cold blood. It screamed in pain and fear, you sick boy.

Her feet take two steps backward, her wide eyes glossy with fear and pinned on me as she screams, "You’re an animal and you should be locked up for what you did. I can’t believe you’re my own flesh and blood. Killer. You’re a twisted killer."

I smile, not even making an effort anymore to make it a normal one like I usually paste on. Pebbles crunch beneath my boots as I take a step towards her, my eyes dropping and discreetly scanning the ground in the rapidly falling darkness, searching for a decent-sized rock, my blood pumping molten through my veins.

I ignore her accusations. It’s obvious she’s seen me earlier; I remain silent, I don’t justify her words with a comment either way.

I’m not worried what she has, or hasn’t seen, not in the slightest.

It’s the more superior of the species against the dumb beasts.

Like that useless stinking fox, she won’t be breathing much longer.

People trip on uneven rocks in the hazy light of dusk — or get tripped. I laugh softly at that thought. Clumsy people hit their heads all the time. Sometimes they die. You often hear it on the news.

I’m so sick of listening to her whining. So sick of her tattling. So sick of her breathing the same air as me. She doesn’t deserve any more of my thoughts. She thinks she’s the Virgin Mary the way she simpers and carries on at home.

The holy little Miss Perfect, my reddened, whipped arse. She’s a whore. I hear the older boys at school talking about how she’ll spread her legs wide for whomever whispers in her ear or buys her cheap shiny things.

The shadows are creeping closer, filling in the last remnants of remaining light as the night prepares to draw its cloak over the land.

I run my tongue over and around my top teeth. Take another steady step forward. Myfanwy. What’re you doing here? You know Mam and Tad don’t like you being out so close to twilight, I taunt.

Raising my hands, I curl the fingers, making claws as I growl, my boyish tone making me sound more like a spitting housecat, but it doesn’t matter. You should be careful, you know the Cŵn Annwn prowl around just before darkness falls looking for stupid girls like you to eat. Her mouth freezes in a wide ‘O’.

I almost laugh out loud as her face pales, becoming a circle of glowing white in the gloom around us. I step closer and see the wash of fear glaze her eyes, as her ingrained fear of the old fables of the large black dogs that patrol around Gwynedd, nails her to the spot. She swallows and I watch her throat work as the muscles inside move with force.

Recovering, she takes a step back, as I advance one narrowing the distance between us.

Keep away from me Bryn. I’ll scream if you come closer, she threatens. Her arms come out before her, palms raised in what she seems to think is a defensive pose. It’s no more threatening than the bugs beneath my boots. I swear I will, she cries.

I take another step, bend and palm a jagged melon sized rock. I toss it from hand to hand like a rugby ball. What’s the matter Myfanwy? Scared? Are you scared of me, your brawd bach?

She steps back, her eyes following the rock as it goes from left to right, right to left. Her right ankle twists, throwing her to the side when her school shoe slips on a rain-slick rock. Woollen covered arms shoot out to the side as she balances herself. Her pouty lips turn down as she gathers up that older sister courage and sneers at me. There’s something very wrong with you. Mam and Tad should’ve had you locked up when you were born. You’re broken in your head.

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

Whore. Dirty whore. Dirty brown haired whore.

My pulse throbs in the base of my throat, and my ears pound enough to block out the gurgling of the water behind my back, as I take another step forward.

She matches me in reverse. Her chest rises and falls as her breathing becomes heavy and staggered. Her whore-green eyes swim with tears, the excess raining down her pale face.

Good you’re scared. And you should be. I’m going to peel the skin from your overfed whorish body like I’m skinning a rabbit.

Even though she’s four years my senior, she’s of a petite frame. From the top of her head, to her soles, she’s no taller than me, and the rush of power that zings like lightning bolts through my veins as I gaze into her wide eyes, makes me feel ten foot tall.

She stands frozen on the spot, as trapped in the sticky web of her fear, as Mr Fox was by the unbreakable wire of my snare.

I inhale deeply, my nostrils flaring. The scent of her terror is so sweet, unlike the fox, who stunk of piss and in the end, shit.

Myfanwy’s fear swirls like thick mist around me. My mind buzzes noisily like the bees in the heather blossoms. Her fear speaks to the newborn dark place inside me. Whispers to hit her and rejoice as her snowy skin turns crimson, brush coyly through the corners and corridors of my mind.

I cock my head to the side, my tongue licking at the corner of my bottom lip as I listen.

The voices that were until now, just faint murmurings, are becoming more lucid. Stronger.

Yes, I will, I answer to their unspoken demands, inhaling another deep breath of the sticky, heady scent of sweat-coated terror. I step closer. Her panicked breaths fan across my face and strands of my hair lift and fall softly about my neck.

Bryn, she lowers her voice as if speaking to a scared puppy.

I straighten my head, my lip curling at her sickly tone. Her eyes drop before scooting back to mine. She swallows. I hear the gulp as her throat struggles against closing up.

Please don’t. I promise I won’t tell. I was just mad at you for hurting and killing that fox, it was cruel. You haven’t seen cruel yet. But you will. That’s why I said those things. Of course, you shouldn’t have been locked up as a baby. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.

She bites down on her bottom lip in a vain attempt to control the quivering, before sucking in a deep breath and continuing in a shaky voice, Or said that you’re broken in the head. Come on now, Brynny, you’d never hurt your big sister, would you? She whispers. Let’s go home brawd bach. Have dinner.

A desperate look flashes across the green of her watery eyes, and a crooked smile, meant to be friendly, but which just looks ridiculous, twists her lips up like the old man in the next village who everyone says had a stroke.

I bet you’re hungry? Mam’s made Bice ar y Maen… I know, I stole two of them, …and your favourite, Lamb Cawl. It isn’t my favourite at all, it’s Tad’s. Stupid girl. I hate that soup shit, as much as I hate her and Mam, I won’t even tell that you were walking by the river. They’ll never….

She whimpers as I cluck my tongue, shutting her up mid-sentence. Dropping my arms by my side, the rock screams to taste blood. Or is that the voice murmuring in my ear?

I close my eyes and shake my head, before opening them again. I sniff at her. I taste your fear on my tongue fy chwaer. My tongue sweeps across my lips. It’s delicious and nearly as tasty as your insincere begging. My head tips sideways, my eyes raking over her face as she takes in a deep noisy breath and releases it.

She’s gathering her courage for one last attack.

One last plea to the foolish little brother she believes stands before her.

The little brother she has been making a mockery of his whole life.

The one who now is about to come full-circle and right the wrongs.

Trembling, she must see the change sweep over my face because her lip quivers as she stands her ground, throws her hands out to the side and in a quavering voice yells in my face, I take it back. You’ll burn in Hell, Bryn. You’re so broken it’s not funny and you’re a sinner that even the Devil would spit on. There’s no fixing the smashed pieces of your mind.

Spittle lands on my face, but I don’t bother wiping it away. There’ll be soon be more than that on my skin.

My left-hand whips out, fingers curling vice-like in a thick-hank of the hair she so vainly brushes one thousand times a day. I tug. She squeals and her head jerks to the side.

B-Bryn. Stop it right now.

So defiant. So stupid and beneath me. I tug harder, feeling hairs pinging free from her scalp, my heart thumping as she begins to wail hysterically, all words of scorn forgotten.

New words, softer words, vomit out of her mouth, as she attempts to remove my hand from her hair. My temper boils in my belly, fire traces along my veins. I can almost hear my body sizzling with the heat my fury is generating.

"Let go. Please. I love you Bryn, please let me go," she pleads in a raspy tear-sodden voice. She may as well have meowed at me. Her words carry no weight. They’re useless against the indestructible armour I’ve encased my body and mind in. Her pleas slip and slide away, shattering on the rocky ground at our feet.

Her voice fades to nothing as I narrow my eyes at her.

I lean forward, pressing my nose to hers, sneering at her false words of love.

What is love? A stupid emotion. A weakness.

One I’ll never succumb to.

Never.

No more will I be weak. A puppet to be moved this way and that for the amusement of dumb beasts. But, Bryn, you must be clever, the icy voice in my ear states, her death will raise more questions than that of a pesky fox. I nod my head. I understand.

I must not allow this molten river of rage inside me to swamp and