A'right. First thing. I did NOT expect the start. Or pretty much anything in there. The muse wrote it out, so blame it! And since it's on my journal, I've decided to forego the warnings. If you want to read this, you should expect by now to be shocked or otherwise rattled. You can still blame me if you like but heh!
When we were little and my father got angry, he used to hit my mom. Then when I was old enough, he hit me.
My brother was born the day after Christmas. I always thought of him as a belated gift. When I was old enough that mom let me hold him, I figured there was nothing more beautiful than those eyes, wide and innocent, so very trusting.
I remember, I thought you were mine. Every child is selfish in that way. All that is pretty, all that catches their fancy becomes theirs. For many years, you were just mine.
Then you started to show your temper, your true nature. Stubborn, seductive, laughter all around you. Always found a way to get what you wanted.
Mom was blind to your scheming, at least for a little while. I think Father thought you were everything he should have been.
I remember the first time he raised his hand on you. You didn’t cower, didn’t run away, probably just too foolish, at four years old. You just stared at him from the floor and called him a monster.
He was livid. I can still feel the fear in me when I saw him reach for you. I can still remember how fast you bolted, how you led him through a merry chase all through the house, under the table, behind the sofa...
I would have laughed if I hadn’t been so scared. I didn’t want him to break you. Because you were mine, you were so small and he was so big.
I think it’s significant, in some way, that you escaped him that first time. And several times after. You’d catch hell if he managed to hold on to you though.
I think one of the most important things about us is the fact that I always liked to hold you. I held you the first time, through the anger and pain, the questions and the need. You were much more than a toy since that time, when I felt your tears on my shoulder, you became yourself, something detached from me which I couldn’t go without. You made me laugh, you made me feel.
My only love, all through my life, was you.
When you started school, you spent so much time alone that people thought you were just odd. They didn’t like that you could do something they couldn’t. Being alone, liking being alone made you a target.
I remember, I saw them trying to hit you once. I caught the first guy and just laid into him. I couldn’t stop. Couldn’t handle anyone else hurting you.
Of course, we had our fair share of fights. When I stepped on your pet mouse, when you tattled on me to mom the first time I tried smoking. But it was never enough to last more than a few minutes.
Around Christmas time, when you were 12 years old, me and mom went out to get you a gift. I’d been working and had a little extra money and I wanted to see you smile. I bought this brand new skateboard for you, it was all black, very simple, but solid enough to last a while. I was so happy, I knew you’d love it. Mom was a little disapproving of it, she didn’t want you to hurt yourself with it.
When we got home, the house was suspiciously silent, one of the kitchen chairs was on its back, just sitting dumbly. A picture of you and me lay shattered on the ground. I didn’t know what it was but I felt an ice cold fist in my stomach... Father’s car was up front.
Then there was a noise from the bathroom, I was scared to open the door. That’s when I heard the small, scared and pained whimper. It was you. I pushed the door open...
All I could see was Father’s back and his hand across your throat. Your eyes were rolling back and I thought he was going to kill you. I yelled out for mom to call the police. It didn’t take me more than a few seconds before I made a choice. Father was turning back to me, I wouldn’t have the time to react. I used the skateboard still in my hands and swung. Caught the back of his head and he crumbled to the floor, letting go of you.
I don’t remember all of the following minutes... You were crying uncontrollably, angrily trying to stop. I saw your clothes torn up in places where they shouldn’t have been. Father was still moving a bit and I didn’t want him to get a hold of you again so I took your hand and tugged you in our room. You couldn’t speak because it hurt to, but you didn’t need to. You were shaking, your grip on me so tight that I probably couldn’t have gotten free if I’d tried.
When the police got there, you’d dried your tears and gathered yourself up. I could see the anger in you, it was so cold, so intense, it wrapped you up in a protective blanket and you answered the men’s questions honestly, telling them all you knew. Your voice didn’t break once, but it was raspy from the harsh treatment.
I think from then on, you started to pull everything into yourself and built up your walls higher, stronger. It’s a lucky thing I was already inside.
When the divorce date closed in, you knew you’d have to see Father again. I think that’s why you ran away. You managed to get quite a distance in before the police brought you back. Thankfully, by that time, everything was done and over with. Father was condemned by your written testimony and we never saw him again.
You became ridiculously attached to that skateboard. I guess under the circumstances, that’s more than understandable. It took a few years before you smiled easily again. But I was never scared of that. You always had this incredible love for life within you...
You got older, and you grew more confident, more devious. And in many ways more giving. I worried a lot about you pushing yourself too far. No one got close to you, no one managed to breach those walls... And I was glad, for a long time happy to be this important to you. But you still yearned for more... I could see that I wasn’t enough. Not like this.
You needed someone strong enough to climb inside you and show you that... you’re definitely worth the trouble. All those relationships you had with people who didn’t really care... that’s how people are, you and I both know that. Selfish. As long as you listened to them, what interest did they have in listening to you? After all, you didn’t speak. You didn’t say anything. That had to mean you had nothing to say.
Idiots. The bunch of them.
Then he came along.
You really loved him, didn’t you? You thought he’d be the one to want to listen to you. You gave him so many openings... and he didn’t recognise them. But you wouldn’t give up.
You didn’t give up until you were bloody and torn from trying to let him reach you. And I could see it hurt you to breathe.
He didn’t see. Because you’re that good at hiding it. But I saw... and I knew you wouldn’t give up anyway. You never knew when to.
You don’t know why he left. And I know that hurts you still. Possibly more than anything else... but I couldn’t let you do this to yourself anymore. It was tearing me up inside too.
And now you want to try again. You think you’re ready for it. You think this one will be able to see the openings and climb inside.
You never knew when to give up.