Insane.

Yes, that is the word, the best word, the only word to describe my brother Iggy. Insane.

Ever since birth he was odd, unstable, an unpredictable time bomb who would blow up with some ludicrous action, wreak some sort of mischief, and then settle back into a somewhat dormant state, winding himself up for his next explosion. Often these bursts of craziness involved him acting completely deranged and breaking various objects, and, sometimes, assaulting people. Once, in one of Iggy's fits, he began to gnaw on the head of my sister, Wendy. His teeth pierced her scalp, and when we (several of my brothers and I) finally succeeded in prying him from her, she was bleeding profusely and required first-aid. While we treated her wound, Iggy sat in the corner and mumbled cheerfully to himself as he built some sort of odd contraption from scrap metal he had found.

Though his strange behavior alone may be enough to warrant him a label of insanity, it is his darker side in which his true madness lies. Though he rarely ever shows it, Iggy has proven to be a cold, cruel, calculative genius. Sometimes I wonder if his intellect is on par with (or, though I loathe to admit it, surpasses) mine. He seems to disguise his true nature with a dumb, lunatic-like demeanor. As to why, I do not know.

But it is this true nature of his that I worry about. Not only is he incredibly smart, but he displays sadistic tendencies as well. He seems to lack morals and derives pleasure in cruel acts. I once discovered the bottom of his closet littered with dead birds that he had tortured. When I confronted him about it, he seemed confused, as if he didn't know why I was disturbed by such a thing. That was many years ago, when he was much younger. Now his closet is filled with larger creatures, or at least I assume. Last time I checked it, there were several carcasses of various different animals, most of which I could no longer identify due to their mangled appearance. I've never told my family about it, and I haven't visited Iggy's room since then. I don't want to think about the things I've seen in there.

Yes, insane is the best word to describe that monstrous being, that strange, unpredictable creature that I call my brother.

Although, despite his oddities, I cannot honestly say that I've ever hated him. I've never liked him, but I've never particularly disliked him either. He was simply another family member of mine, another person who I would have to tolerate day in and day out.

But it was the poison that started it all. Yes, it was the mere mention of that damned poison of his that led to this. His poison led to the distrust, the hate, the violence, and, ultimately, his demise. It's his fault. If he had never told me of it, none of this would have happened.

Then, why, as I sit here with the blood of my brother on my hands, do I feel as if I am the one to blame? Why do I feel this gnawing sensation at the back of my mind? Why do I hear a faint voice, trying to tell me something, something important, something that I can feel must be true, but I can't make out the words? Why, why, why? Why do I feel this way?

Perhaps if I start from the beginning, retrace everything that happened within the course of the last few days, then I'll be able to identify what went wrong, when it seemed like I was at fault. I've always thought logically like that before, so it shouldn't be too difficult.

Very well. I will start from the beginning.