When I was younger, a little over half my current age, I shared a flat on the Garrett Estate, with two brothers. It was more of a squat, we were little more than kids and we didn’t work, we just began to occupy an empty space, filled with someone’s old furniture. When I had got there, the door was open, the lock broken, and a few days later, the brothers arrived, also looking for somewhere to live. We silently assented to share the apartment and we moved the old woman’s body outside, before we truly settled in.
The brothers were both quite savage. I called them “Karamazov” but they didn’t like the term, they despised it, in fact. We didn’t speak much. Brother A used to beat Brother B, a sickly sort, so savagely than he would bleed and wet himself. I was so enraged that I used to attack Brother A, to no avail – he was strong from long days working in the fields and long nights drugged and dancing around his own shadow. Brother B would never resist the beatings, always accepting them meekly and without question. After a while, this lack of resistance incensed me more, and so I took to beating Brother B as well. This didn’t change much, he just bled more and pissed more, and when a man reaches a certain stage of life, he gets tired of living in a dead old woman’s flat filled with someone else’s blood and piss, and so I left.
It’s funny how, looking back, these periods of life, of living, can seem so insignificant. I never saw the brothers again.