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My brother runs his fingers through his hair again, as he goes on, “I didn’t know the rest of it. I didn’t know how bad it was. I never… I never knew. I never saw any of what he… He wasn’t…”
Like that with me.
Again, he doesn’t say it because he doesn’t have to.
It’s implied that even though we shared a father, we really didn’t.
Like the rest of the world, my brother knew a different father than I did. He got a dad who was strict but encouraging and proud andfuckingloving instead of the one who was perpetually angry. Perpetually disappointed. Who perpetually tried to mold me into something that he wanted and when I refused, he’d become a bully.
Shouting, screaming, punching and yes, locking up and starving, medicating, whatever struck his fancy, whatever he was in the mood for that day, he’d do.
And of course in secret.
In private.
So no one would see his real face.
No one would know that the generous, upstanding Howard Davidson was a fucking monster who beat his own son.
But the stubborn motherfucker that I was, I took it all.
I didn’t fucking break. I didn’t fucking obey.
And that would just piss him off even more.
So again, what a stupid fucking idea to write it all down where someone could read it.
Great, Dad. Just fucking great. You’re a moron, aren’t you?
“Why didn’t you…” he asks, his features still writhing in agony. “Why didn’t you say something?”
Anger washes over me then.
Great, big wave of anger.
“Toyou, you mean,” I sneer.
“I —”
“I didn’t tell you anything, big brother,” I growl, my voice low and vibrating, “because I didn’t think you’d care. I didn’t think you’d give a fuck if your wonderful father was beating on your piece of shit brother. That’s what you thought about me, didn’t you?”
He has enough courtesy to look ashamed. “I…”
“Because you’re like everyone else.” I shrug then. “Not that I blame you or anyone else. I’ve earned every inch of my reputation and I’m very fucking proud of it. But don’t you stand there and interrogate me about what I did or didn’t do.”
When I actually did it.
Told someone.
Our mom.
A couple of times even, back when I was little and stupid enough to think that it would help.
Spoiler alert: it didn’t.
She told me to behave and be good like Homer and it would stop. And then she went on to ignore it and keep my dad’s secret like his good little accomplice.
So yeah, I didn’t think my brother would care.
