Two Anchors.

My Brother, the Handsome One. He who lays rotting in the ground these past 13 years. He had the truth of it. The bitter truth that now, as he damn well prophesied when liquored up and popular on pay-day, has eventually come to pass…

His last words to me, upon this cursed Earth, while he still had breath in his diseased lungs to speak, was: ‘I’d rather be dead, as sit with those two fucking idiots!’

The idiots he spoke of were our parents. Those same two poor aged idiots he fulfilled his promise of untimely demise and left me alone to deal with. I tell you, friend – when the darkness within me comes in the evening, or the bitter small hours of the night, and takes hold? Well, let’s just say I’d be happy to send them both to join him. Neither Matricide or Patricide sit well with me, whilst I still bare a conscience, though that in itself could be considered a miracle. Believe me, when I tell you unequivocally, I am not without my provocation… Open sea or any chance of catching the wind both eludes and evades me in equal measure. My unhappy birth not enough to contend with, says I. They seem Hell-bent on keel-hauling my weary carcass. My muscles and sinews rent, my flesh torn apart upon their short-sighted stupidity, while I drown in the deep water. The squall of their combined ignorance forever threatens to claim my gradually blackening soul.

In entity an Albatross, hung about my neck. Separate?

They’re two anchors. One shackled to each ankle.

Dragging me down towards my end, as I fight to hold my breath long enough to break the chains…