Dear... My Brother
You abused me. I know you did. Whether people believe me or not, it doesn’t take away from the fact that you did.
Pointing out shapes in my bruise isn’t going to get rid of the pain. I was a child. Actually, I was a toddler when it started. How could you punch a baby? How could you punch me. Every time I feel something around my neck, for a split second I think it’s your hands. Every time my voice is croaky and my muscles hurt, I think of the aftermath. I think of the times you knocked me out simply because you were bored. I think of the times I ran to mum with you chasing me and her just walking away leaving me stuck with you. She said it was normal, but an eight year old shouldn’t have hand marks on her neck. A three year old shouldn’t be beaten up by a seven year old. A ten year old shouldn’t have to carry a frying pan to feel safe in her own house. A six year old shouldn’t have her head slammed against a wall just to be told ignore him or he’s a boy of course he’ll fight. Well you didn’t have to fight me. And all my pain just because you were bored.
I worry for the women in your future: your wife, your daughter, your niece. I also worry for me. I worry that the times we are forced together will take me back to being a helpless kid crying for you to stop hurting me. Please stop hurting me.