I brought him to a Christmas dinner once.

He ate like the animal he was.

I pressed and insisted he was family.

"That's a pet," my great uncle protested, "have him eat on the floor, goddamnit."

Maybe that was a good thing though.

Maybe it was good that it all happened.

A flash of green and red.

It was Christmas after all.

A grim smile twisted on my face in the moment.

I was beckoned by his call.

What had I become.

The things I considered are things I'll never tell.

Maybe it was a good thing.

That I never heard from my great uncle again.