The dummy in the living room was wearing a ski mask, and was quite dead. The ski-masked dummy, Mr. Harris, was your brother.’ * * * Six months later...I went to trial for the murder of my seventeen-year-old brother, Matthew. The state’s attorney could not reconstruct a concrete chain-of-events for that terrible Halloween night, but there was really no question as to who inflicted the fatal blows to Matt’s skull, neck, arms and chest. The physical (and logical) evidence had overwhelmingly proven. I could feel the steamy acrid stench casually wafting upward across my now sensitive wet upper lip from her toe sweat a minute ago. No, I thought to myself. Nicole, please don't. Fear welled in me as I read her intentions from the grin on face that told volumes. The smooth toenail from her big toe brushed my upper lip as it passed under. No. I felt the front of her toenail contact my incisors. As she adjusted downward, her nail clicked as it left my teeth to go deeper. Please. Rape. I. More

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