The Rhodes Method

two

Matilda, you talk of the pain like it's all alright
But I know that you feel like a piece of you's dead inside
You showed me a power that is strong enough to bring sun to the darkest days
It's none of my business, but it's just been on my mind
--- Matilda, Harry Styles

OCTAVIA RHODES

"Tave," Damien uses my nickname that he has used for the last seventeen years of my life. "I think you've hurt those cans enough."

This is where Damien used to go alone when he was a troubled, teenage boy. Now, apparently, he's too old to come alone, so he takes me with him – he has been doing this since I turned fifteen, and I don't want to think about the future days when I will be coming here alone to let off steam.

Located behind an old warehouse in the sketchier parts of town, is a small junkyard. Every once in a while, we will come out here, and Damien will collect a few things with me. Today, we have gathered a bag of metal tins rubber bands and rocks from the side of the road. We then head to the warehouse and set up our findings. We set up the tin cans into small towers and then we spent the next few hours flinging rubber bands and throwing rocks, creating noise and sound. We do not stop until our hands are sore and we run out of material.

For the first time, Damien stops before I do. He usually has more frustration in him.

"Tave," Damien repeats. "You can stop now."

I crack my fingers. "I'm not sore yet."

"It's getting late."

"I've never stopped you before."

"I'll throw this rock at you if you go on." For extra measure, Damien picks up the sturdy-looking rock at his feet. He shakes it in mid-air, and his lips curl upwards when I drop my hands and stop. My older brother then comments, "What's got you so pissed off?"

"I recall you shouting at me when I used to ask this question."

Damien laughs. "You're always funny when you're angry."

"Thanks," I respond, sarcastically.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

My brother's question stuns me into silence. Damien never wants to just 'talk' about something Damien hates talking and words. He shouts at me for interrupting his silence. My brother and I usually do not need to speak to understand each other. Like before: he knew I needed this release when I had stood in the doorway, expressionless.

"We never talk," I respond.

"We talk." Damien wraps his arm around my neck and squeezes me tight. I almost can't breathe. "What's bothering ya? Don't say 'nothing'. I'll get pissed."

"You're always pissed; there's nothing different there."

"Oi." He punches my shoulder. "Spill it."

I comply, otherwise, Damien will not stop bothering me. "Can I not just feel angry? I'm pissed Vince is annoying me, and I'm also pissed he's in this situation in the first place."

"What situation?"

Surely Damien is not this clueless. "Raising us? Parenting us?"

"He parents you, not me. Don't say 'us'." Damien scowls.

"He parents us, Damien. He parents you and me the most."

My middle brother grumbles a few words under his breath. He lets go of my shoulder, as he has gotten his information out of me and no longer requires answers. He heads out of the warehouse, and after a second, I follow behind him. Damien walks too fast for me, but he waits for me by the large metal doors. He has taken a cigarette out. He does not smoke in front of me usually.