Demen is what's keeping us busy these days. You may not have heard of it yet. The boys at the Universal Tribune have a story about it, but they're sitting on it per our request. We have an understanding about such things.

Demen is pronounced "Demon" and it's short for "Demon Semen." And I'm afraid it's exactly what it purports to be.

The application of this…substance is to tie your lover to a bed. Tie them down very, very well. Then you have them drink this. Then you get on and have the ride of your life.

Even the sweetest, most demure Catholic nun would turn into a frothing, foul-mouthed sexual tornado on this stuff. The kick for the person on top is to get off and survive the experience. Because Demen makes you want to fuck and kill, in varying order.

I understand only the very brave or very foolish attempt a ride without the person on bottom sporting a ball gag. Human teeth can tear out a throat better than you might expect.

There've been far too many cases where the rider has not tied the other down well enough, and when the Demen wears off, you're left with one corpse and one sobbing young person, slathered in blood and other bodily juices.

It's depressing. So of course, I quit. Again.

I came home, took off my gun, my Task Force badge, and went upstairs to relax.

This was our parents' house. I moved in once my father died, so I could look after mother. Then she died and left me all alone.

They left our room just as it was before we were taken. There are numerous science fair ribbons on my side of the room, but I don't really have any recognition when I look at them.

The sports trophies on Ronald's side, however. Those I can understand.

I entered law enforcement and joined the Task Force to try and find Ronald's dream. My dream? Unimportant. The man who robbed us? A bonus, if found.

But Ronald never really recovered. Well, no one ever really recovers. There's no day that you wake up and suddenly everything is okay.

Ronald just never got over the sadness. Never smiled again, I don't think. Except that one time. And there's just something terrible about looking at a reflection of yourself that won't smile.

So when a year in, I caught the bastard, I couldn't believe my luck. And he had Ronald's dream as well. Mine he had lost–he had loaned the set out and never gotten mine back.

Among the dreams recovered, though, was Ronald's, and I got to be the one to give it to him. And he did. He smiled at me and at it. And I felt as though I had managed to do something with my life after all.

While I slept here, alone and actually getting rest for probably the first time since we were taken as boys of ten, Ronald sat in his den with his dream in his lap and swallowed the barrel of a gun he never told me he owned.

I keep his dream here on his bed, laid out like his best clothes would be on Sunday mornings. I sit on my old bed and look at it.

I can just make out his image, a young boy winning medal after medal.

But I don't touch it. I'm not like the bastards I put away. That's not what this is about.

I just miss my brother. Jesus, I miss my brother.