I’m awake, but I don’t even want to move. I don’t want to sleep again; I just want to cease to exist. It’s the same typical scenario that revolves around our house. My drunken father is causing a scene after coming home early in the morning, having drunk with his friends all night. Sometimes it’s just him and my mother screaming at each other, but this time, I sense there’s something more going on. I slowly get out of bed, lock my door, and creep to the wooden door, focusing all my senses on hearing what’s happening outside.
“It’s not his fault… Please don’t beat him up again, I’m begging you. He’s weak, he doesn’t… please don’t.” I hear my mother begging my father not to beat up my younger brother again, but it doesn’t work. I hear a loud crash, followed by my mother’s crying and screaming. I can feel my throat gripping on itself tightly, like I’m being suffocated by the room I’m in, and my body shivering even though it’s not necessarily cold. I can’t breathe, I’m grasping hard for air, my mind goes blank, and I’m plunged into a state of numbness. What’s happening to me? Why can’t I feel anything? Is something wrong with me? Those are the questions you would think run through my mind at that moment, but sadly, no. Besides knowing that my body is shaking, I can’t think of anything else.
After a few minutes, reality crashes down on me as I hear the sounds of an ambulance pulling up to our house and many people murmuring. That’s when I exit the room, seeing our small apartment disheveled and in a state of havoc. I see my brother being taken on a stretcher and put into the ambulance. There’s a large puddle of blood on the sofa, leading to the doorway. Apparently, my father, in a fit of anger, smashed a dumbbell into my brother’s head and then fled.
The relationship between my father and my brother wasn’t always like this; in fact, it was the exact opposite.
“Honey! I think it’s happening!” My mother shouts as she sits on the floor, holding her big belly. My father, who’s in the room with me reading a story, jumps up, goes straight to my mother, and shouts, “Max, pick up my car key in the room, and please hurry, Son!” After hearing that, I immediately open the door to the master bedroom of our house and look for my father’s keys. I check his work pants, but they’re not there. So I shout, “It’s not in your pants, father!” to which he replies, “Check the desk!” I take my hands out of the pants pocket, turn around and go to his cabinet. I grab the keys and run to my father, panting, “Here… It… Is…” breathing heavily as I hand the keys to my father, and he ushers me into the car. We drive straight to the hospital and rush my mother into the emergency room. After waiting for hours, the doctor calls us in and says congratulations to my father. There, I finally see my younger brother for the first time. He’s smiling with his big eyes, so open that light reflects off them. Even though there’s a glass separating my little brother and my father, I can feel my father’s love reaching my brother as he mutters the words with open eyes and a big smile, “I love you so much. I love you both, you and your brother. I promise I’ll…” He stops for a second, takes out his handkerchief, wipes his tears and nose, and then continues, “… I’ll take care of both of you till the day I die.”
Growing up, my brother was always sickly. He didn’t play sports; he was very weak, fragile, and skinny. That’s why my mother and father prioritized him over me. I get it. I’m six years older than him and can manage on my own now. He’s always been protected by my parents, even spoiled. They go on trips together, buy him books he loves, and personally homeschool him. My father is a professor at a well-known university, and so is my mother. My father quit his regular job to fully care for my brother. He still works at the university, but only at selected times. I don’t really understand it, but that’s how they function. Every day, he teaches my brother, and they all seem happy together, laughing and having a good time. But then, my brother’s health slowly deteriorated, leading to his hospitalization. That’s when our father began to lose control. He was forced to sell his car, our house, and spend all his money on my brother’s treatment. Slowly, his humanity deteriorated alongside his finances until he just snapped. He began drinking heavily.
When my brother’s condition didn’t improve and we had no money left to keep him in the hospital, he was forced to be cared for at the little apartment we’re currently renting. My mother decided to put my brother on the sofa so he could watch television while they cared for him. He would sit there, with a big smile on his face, watching his favorite cartoons happily, momentarily forgetting the pain in his body and believing everything would be alright soon. But it never was. Every day, my father would yell at my brother, blaming him for his downfall. I will never forget the first night my father became physical with my brother. He came home drunk as usual, screaming at my mom and my brother, blaming them for his misfortunes. This time, he was much more violent, having just learned that my mother was planning to divorce him. In a fit of rage, he attacked my brother, repeatedly punching him. My brother kept saying, “I’m sorry, father. It’s my fault, please… please don’t hurt me… It’s very painful… I love you, daddy, please, don’t hurt me… It’s very painful…” but that didn’t stop my father. He only stopped when he was restrained by a neighbor who heard my mother’s screams. After that, well, I think you know what happened. My brother didn’t survive. He was pronounced dead on arrival. I will never forget that day. It’s been five years, and it still haunts me. I wish I could be with him right now, watching his favorite TV show together, in our old house, with my father and mother by his side taking care of him, and me just enjoying the moment. I hope you’re in a better place, my little brother. I hope you can watch all your favorite shows there without pain and suffering.
submitted by /u/Aggressive_Aioli_174
[link] [comments]