She stands, unable to be truly happy for him. He’s standing on stage, their parents in the row with her as she folds her arms. Her mother notices her reaction, and nudges her. “You should be happy for your brother. His award is a wonderful thing, and you’re being a poor sister.”
A poor sister? She stands, saying nothing. He’s been a poor brother. To me. You just don’t know. Her hands come together in a nonchalant singular clap, her mother shaking her head, turning back to the stage, smiling when her son comes into view.
You don’t know the times he’s been in my room. She keeps her face stoic, trying not to look at him directly. The number of times he’s shushed me, the number of times his hand has slipped under the covers. She can’t take it, and steps out of the row. “Excuse me,” she mutters past the other strangers in her row, making her way to the bathroom. Her mother tuts disapprovingly, her father almost glaring at her, but she pushes past the double doors, doing what she can to keep herself sane.
He doesn’t deserve anything. Not when he’s done what he’s done. She thinks to herself, staring at herself in the mirror. Her expression is blank, but she’s done pretty well for herself in that regard. Hiding what it was that she felt, so as not to betray it on the surface.
“I just want to feel you,” his voice is soft, almost dangerous as his hand is firm against her mouth, “I just want to know.” His hand burns on her skin, and she’s terrified, and she’s crying, and she’s struggling, and his hand tightens, and he hisses at her to shut up, and he crawls onto the bed on all fours, one of his knees digging into her thigh, and she’s silent, and he pulls her shirt up, and he violates her, and she tries not to think, and she looks away, and he pinches, kneads, touches, violates.
“You won’t tell anyone.” He crawls off her when he’s done, her arms and legs instinctively curling, her back towards him. “You could try, but I’ll call you a liar. There’s no proof, after all. Your word against mine.” He shifts to the door, smirking. A scoff, and he pauses, coming back as the door shuts quietly. His mouth is by her ear, and she can hear his shit-eating grin.
“And who’s going to believe a fat, ugly bitch like you?”
She looks up at the mirror – her mother is standing there now, clearly furious. Reaching for her arm, she’s being dragged out of the bathroom. The family stands there now, her father furious, her brother in his graduation gown. He barely looks at her, keeping up appearances of the ideal brother.
She looks at him, bitter, saying nothing as they go home. In the backseat of the car, he gives her a side-eye, scoffing as he looks away. She keeps her gaze on her side of the car, at the scenery as it flies past her eyes. He doesn’t deserve any of it. He doesn’t deserve anything. He doesn’t deserve his face. He doesn’t deserve the way people treat him. He deserves to be punched. Kicked. Maimed. Shamed. Humiliated. The way he’s made me feel, is what he deserves. The way he’s treated me, the way he’s hurt me, is what he deserves.
She reaches for her journal when he’s left, trying to process it all. She isn’t sure what’s just happened – though her rational mind is fully aware. Reaching for her pen, struggling not to cry, she writes, thinking of what to say.
brothersibling, I thought that the role would be to protect your siblingseach other. Older, younger, doesn’t matter. Gender or sex, doesn’t matter. Protect them. At the very least, at the lowest baselinestandard, don’t hurt them. I’ve learnt today that my brother can hurt me, and betray the trust I had in him, to not hurt me.
Putting the journal down, she has to stop, her tears coming in full force, but not a single sound is heard as she snaps the journal shut, curling up, the shame in herself building and piling.
“I hate you,” she whispers to herself.
“What?” Her brother says, hearing it. She ignores him, keeps her eyes on her side of the car.