Evocation

"Tell me what happened," the reporter said, his voice full of intrigue. "I want to know how the bodies got there." 

"And?" 

"And how he did it. How they ended up... in pieces." I raised an eyebrow and softly pressed down on the brakes, slowing our pace and making sure I'd have enough time to tell the whole thing. 

"It's a long story."

"Okay."

"It's not a nice story," I said, issuing a final warning.  

"I don't expect it to be," he said, pulling out a tape recorder. "But it doesn't matter, this will be front page news. I'll just leave out the more... gruesome parts. Plus, you promised you'd take me to where he told you he chopped those people up." 

"Okay, fine. Where should I start?" 

"From the beginning. What was he like?" 

"My brother was fairly normal," I said, gripping the steering wheel and staring straight ahead. "Well, until the murders started." The reporter turned on the tape recorder and then flipped open a notebook. "I didn't know it was him until I saw it in a dream. Well, more of a repressed memory than a reverie. Somehow I'd managed to block the whole thing out of my head. I shoved it into the darkest depths of my mind and left it there to rot. Now there isn't a day that goes by that I don't wish the memory had stayed there."

"What memory?" 

"I went into my parents' bedroom one night. I don't really know why because I'm not even sure what woke me up, but I saw my brother with blood all over him. He was standing over my mother and father, the dripping knife still in his hands."

"Oh, god." 

"Yeah. Until the night he turned himself in I just thought my parents had been killed by a burglar. That was the official story, anyway. I don't think a lot of people would believe an eight-year-old boy would sneak into his mother and father's bedroom in the middle of the night with a blade." 

"But it all came back?" he asked. I nodded, gripping the steering wheel so hard my knuckles turned white. 

"All at once. And then he went on trial for killing seven men who were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He confessed right away, too. Told the police he lured them into his truck and then murdered them. He spilled his guts without a second thought. Told them he chopped up the bodies and threw them in the river for fun." 

"That's insane," the reporter whispered. "Was he insane?" 

"Perfectly normal. They didn't understand." 

"Did you see him after that?" 

"I did. I visited him in prison the day before he was executed. Do you know what he said to me?"

"I-I don't have a clue," the reporter said, his hands visibly shaking. "What did he say?" 

"He said he loved me. He told me he'd lie to keep me safe. That I was his only sister and he'd do anything to protect me." 

"Protect you from what?" he asked. I smiled, turning on my high beams so I could see the turn off just up ahead. 

"Myself. Memory is a tricky thing, you know." 

"How so?"

"Because," I said simply, turning onto the dirt road, "I didn't remember. I didn't remember that it was me who held the knife that night. I didn't remember going into my parents rooms and slitting their throats while they slept. I didn't remember killing all those people." I turned to him, unable to hold my laughter any longer. "You want to know how the bodies ended up in pieces?" He was silent for a moment, the fear growing in his eyes.

"Yes."

Slowly, I pressed the brakes until we came to a complete stop, surrounded by nothing but trees and darkness. 

"Well, the truth is," I said, grinning from ear to ear, "they ended up in pieces because I used a chainsaw."