Prologue- Quentin

Prologue.
Quentin:

My brother and I were so different from each other, every new person to our town was in disbelief over the fact we were actually related. We didn’t only look unlike the other brother, but we acted the complete opposite.
     We grew up in the same house, but different groups. Jem was one of those nerdy kids that spent most of their time in the lab room trying to make a new type of atom, or something like that. Me on the other hand, I was a kid who was in the rough side of school. I was involved with most of the violence, drugs and alcohol that happened. Believe you me, Quentin was not an unusual name to be followed by ‘is in trouble again’.To see how we were then and how we are now, it would be rather impossible to see Jem as a bad guy.
    

If you had to pick a specific date that ‘everything’ all happened, I guess you could say that it started on 5^th December 2011:
     The snow that fell overnight had settled in one layer over the floor, the air was cold but bearable and the wind was at a low. Jem was out smoking a cigarette, his hands in black leather gloves and his brown hair covered with a woollen, red hat. 
     This wasn’t an unusual sight on a Monday morning. 
     He stubbed it out and walked back into the house, opening the door, letting cold air fill the room then closing it after him. He sat at the small table, already a drop of whiskey in front of him.
     Like I said before, this wasn’t an unusual sight on a Monday morning, believe me.
     I often told Jem that he shouldn’t have any type of alcoholic drink before noon, but he would just take a sip of his bourbon or vodka that sat in his hand and look into my eyes. He’d laugh before saying, and I quote, “You were like this when you were younger, is there really any difference?” and he’d put his drink down, before leaving for another smoke. 
     On this Monday morning, he twisted the small glass of Whiskey in his hand, making the liquid run around the edge of the cup, his eyes never leaving it. 
     “What do you think happens when we die?” He asked.
     “How am I supposed to know, why do you ask?” I replied.
     “I saw on the news that a man had died yesterday. He obviously was important because otherwise they wouldn’t be reporting some random death.”
     “Unless it was a murder,” I said.
     He merely nodded before drinking his Whiskey, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, before setting the glass down and pouring himself another one.
     “Unless it’s a murder…” Jem repeated.
     There was a moment of silence that followed before I spoke again.
     “What were those tire marks leading from or out of your house? Did you go somewhere last night or something?”
He shook his head, “no.”
     “What are they then? I saw them when I pulled up to see you this morning; I was a bit surprised at them as normally at night you’re drinking yourself to death.”
His eyes went to mine and he looked at me, “there was a break in last night,” he whispered.
     “Was there?” I asked. “Did you report it?” 
Jem shook his head.
     “And why not?”
     “Police are police.”
     I knew that would be his answer, even since Jem was eighteen he had this natural dislike towards the officers. They did nothing to him and that was part of the problem. One day Jem was beaten up badly, breaking a few of his ribs and his left wrist, he of course, reported it, but they just laughed at him and told Jem to move along, they had more important things to be doing than helping a little boy. Also, they were responsible for our mother’s death. They may have not actually killed her, but she wasn’t here today because of them.
     “Was anything stolen?” I asked and he nodded, looking away.
     “What?”
     “The DVD player in the spare room, the fake Paul Cezanne painting in the hall that Amy painted for me, um,” he took a sip of whiskey before putting the glass down. “Oh and the old revolver that was under the floor board in the drawing room,” I frowned.
      “I understand not reporting the other things missing, but what about the gun? I mean someone could have killed someone with it, aren’t you at least bit worried about that?” 
Jem drained his glass and slid it over to me, before shaking his head.
     “With hell to the police, now get me another whiskey. And make it large.”