A Fine Vintage

“Are you sorry?” He says through clenched teeth.

“Of course,” I say. He shakes his head.

“Not enough.” He stumbles into a chair, his eyes slipping over my face, trying to hold my gaze but failing.

“You should have done this sober,” I say. I want to laugh. “Come on, you’re a mess. You-”

“Don’t fucking…fucking insult me,” he says, his words thick. He grabs the chair to steady himself and stares up at me. I take a sip of wine.

“See?” I say. “Moderation.”

“Fuck you.”

His arm gives way and he crashes over the table, sending bottles scattering like bowling pins. One, a half-empty bottle of Zinfandel, shatters on the floor. A dark red stain spreads out over the lino.

“Sorry,” he mumbles. I smile. Cain hauls himself up.

“What do you want me to say?” I ask.

“Nothing,” he says, his cheeks flushed with anger and wine. “I’m sick of your voice. Sick of you. You make me sick.”

I nod. “I don’t blame you,” I say. “And for what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

His eyes glitter. “For what it’s worth? You want to know what it’s worth?” He grabs a bottle, holding the neck with a precision I’d never have guessed he could muster, and smashes it against the kitchen surface. Glass shards fly everywhere. I back away, one hand raised.

“Whoa,” I say. “Calm down.”

“Drop the glass,” he says. I do. It bumps and rolls over the floor. More red stains. He takes a step forward, waving the stump of the bottle in my face. His hand’s shaking, but the glass is sharp.

“Nobody’s going to miss you,” he says. “One less smooth bastard to ruin it for the rest of us.”

“I’m sorry,” I repeat.

“You will be,” he says. “She already is.”

I close my eyes for a second. Jessica. Damn. When I open them again the jagged bottle is right in my face.

“Don’t-” I start to say but he lunges. I jump to the side, catching his arm and twisting. He gasps, his fingers go limp, I grab the bottle and ram it into his stomach, twisting. More dark red stains. His eyes bulge and I twist again. I catch an artery and the stains become a river.

“I was sorry, brother,” I whisper. “But not any more.” I twist the bottle again. “You made me spill my wine.”

I pull the bottle out and he collapses, twitching. I hear a scream.

Jessica is in the doorway. Alive. Unhurt. I look from her to my brother’s body.

“Self-defence,” I say, but my voice has gone hollow. There’s a bottle still standing on the table. I take a drink.

“It was self-defence,” I say.