Hippies, Unicorns, and Rainbow Pop-tarts

I wake in a dark room. Once my eyes adjust to the lack of light I realize that the “room” is actually a huge building, reeking of the acrid stench of stale skin, waiting to be tanned and turned to luxury leather. How’d I get here? What had happened? My head throbs and is limp on my shoulder, dry crust bonding bloodied hair in clumps. Being a Vietnam War veteran, I instinctively reach for my head to check for deep wounds, yet my arms are restrained and it dawns I am tied to a chair. I scream but my voice is muffled by a metallic-tasting fabric wedged inside my mouth, like stuffing in a roasted turkey. Dark amorphous shapes litter the floor around me, bodies, some still fresh. The ground is soaked in a pale black substance; the air nauseating. The faint tick-tock of a clock is the only noise to be heard, mocking. I panic and wriggle and squirm to no avail. What the hell is going on???
A new sound comes into hearing, the sound of booted footsteps, one, no two people. They approach.
“So you’re awake,” the voice sparks a distant recollection, an almost freakish twinge in the back of my mind. No way, it couldn’t be. “Start the majzine.” The lisp did it. My captor is my brother, who had disappeared back in 1969 after my father had turned him into the police for standing a gas station. The dark sheep of the family is getting his revenge.
The other man dissolves into the darkness, obeying Solomon’s orders and there is a click and a scratch as a rusty lever is pulled. Suddenly, an array of surgical tools releases from the ceiling. They dangle inches from my stomach, clattering together like a twisted wind chime, kept from falling by long pieces of moldy rope. A flake of blood falls in my eye and I blink blink blink to get it out. A blinding light engulfs the darkness with a dull buzz. I winc from the sudden change and rainbow patterns dance before my eyes. I realize through peripheral vision that I am on a wrinkled faded blue table with a sheet of paper, like the ones used in hospital rooms, stretched unto the corners. Solomon snaps on a pair of latex gloves and brandishes a long serrated knife that I only recognize from jungle tours in ‘Nam. Dry blood traces its figure. He takes it by the hilt and yells to his co-worker.
“Cut some slack on the rope, remember, I want a clean cut with as little extra as possible.”
It is then, in the face of death, I hear the whimpering. I turn to my side and see a boy of no more than 12 lying by me. My eyes glaze down to the stomach, his stomach… or rather, the gaping crater where it should be, now a lake of blood. I smile falsely. He looks back at me, his eyes amazingly clear. I wince.
Is that remorse?