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Not so with Ivan.I never liked him. Not once, not ever. It wasn't that I hated him — exactly. He'd ignored, taunted, threatened and abused me for most of my childhood. We'd never been pals or buddies, never had the fractious fraternal relationship that I'd observed between other siblings, including my own. I'd feared him, which considering the difference in our ages was not an unreasonable reaction on my part, and having feared him for so long I suppose it's also not unreasonable to think some degree of hatred might have existed. But once I got to be taller than my brother, things changed between us.No more slaps to the head, punches on the arm or in the stomach. Oh, he still taunted and threatened; more often than not he simply ignored me, but the physical abuse stopped.Even the harsh words pretty much dried up after the infamous hunting trip.But time dulls most people's memories, and apparently it had completely blunted my brother's sense of self preservation while it was in the. His brownish hair was sprinkled with splotches of silver and a neatly trimmed goatee adorned his face. He drew a lighter from his other pocket and lit a second cigarette.He walked across the small room and over to a small table with a well watered plant on it.He?d always liked that plant, he thought to himself. He pulled open the drawer of the table and withdrew two small glasses and a bottle of vodka.Strong stuff too.He carried the things over to the coffee table and set them down, then sat back down in the green chair.The guest still stood silently at the door. He struggled to open the aged bottle and settled for smashing the neck of the bottle off on the edge of the table, spilling clear liquid onto the wood floors. ?Oh no, oh no, oh dear?? he sputtered stumbling to clean up the mess.He bent low to the floor to collect the shattered glass, but halfway down, shook his head and stood up.He sat back down, leaving the mess still on the floor, the vodka forming around the smoldering.
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