I met an Angel with broken wings

I met an angel with broken wings, in the form of my brother.

I didn't understand it when people said there are angels disguised as people.
But then I witnessed it with my own two eyes.
Whether you take it metaphorically or not, I met one.

I remember his face. His ever tired expression. Yet he tried. He tried so hard to please everyone, to fix everything with his own two hands.

I remember him barely talking. I don't know why he talked so rarely. Possibly because when he did open his mouth, people would talk over him, not listen to him, or twist his words.

My brother. He shielded me from beatings when he was fast enough.
He gave it all to watch our life, but didn't care about his own.

When Mom and Dad had an argument so bad she left, it was him who stood up, and made sure we had food to eat.
Made sure we were okay. I watched him standing at the stove, trying to regulate his breathing. Silent tears that streamed down his pale face. The way he would wipe them away the second someone approached and smile.
It wasn't a happy smile. Later in life I learned what it's like to smile while falling apart, just to shield the people you care the most about from your own heart breaking.
Yet it was so convincing.
And when Mom returned that same day just to rub salt in the wound, he stood bravely in the kitchen, arguing over the counter with her.
He sounded so broken. His voice cracked as he held back tears as much as he could. I could swear I saw him choke on those tears too.
Nevertheless, he stood there, trying his best to make Mom stay. She left again, and I was able to see his very soul shattering through his eyes. Sometimes I feel like every time something like that happened, his pretty blue eyes would lose their colour, and grow more dull.
The light vanishing.

It wasn't Dad who fixed it. It wasn't Dad who made an effort to get Mom back. It was my brother.
My big brother. He sat on the window sill, his head in one hand while he texted over his phone to Mom.
He apologized for things he never did, things he wasn't at fault for.
And somehow, he managed to get Mom back.
She came back.

I can't believe that I was such an asshole to him. All four of us were such assholes to him, even though he tried his best.
He wanted to read us a bedtime story.
He loved books. He had a lot of them. So he picked out one of his favourites to read to us.
Yet we screamed, and did everything but listen to him.

Mom came home when he was sitting on the window sill, hugging his book, looking defeated.
And no one ever acknowledged his efforts, in fact, they got mad at him for it.

He always tried to make it right.

My brother. He stayed silent in most conflicts, yet he would put himself on the line to protect what he loved most.

On that day. On the day I saw him sitting outside alone in the garden, as the sun set.
It was silent.
And in the setting sun's light, I swore I saw a pair of wings, broken and battered.

Yet he was still here. So bruised, so violated.
I can't believe the amount of strength someone must have to survive that.

I remembered, when Mom threatened to leave again, he just stood there in the doorway. Frozen and silent. Staring at the wall. I remember his hands shaking. I knew he hated loud noises, I do too.
He was scared of people yelling. Yet he didn't do, nor say anything.

And then, after a while, he came up to me, and hugged me tightly.
I was able to feel him shaking. I was young. Yet I felt so touched by the gesture.

Mom and Dad never hugged us much. And my brother didn't like hugs either, he didn't like the feeling of being touched.
Yet he hugged me. He patted my head.

In fact, there were many times where he was the one to step up as a parental figure.
After I was born, Mom and Dad never spent much time with me. But he did.
He barely got time for himself, got in trouble at school over it, everything.
But he still looked at me so kindly.
He did the same to my other siblings.

I saw it in his eyes. He started to resent us. He started to resent us because Mom and Dad always blamed him for everything. For having kids. For the money we didn't have. And he never said anything about it.
He just swallowed it all on his own.

And then he left one day.

I felt sad. I felt so sad when he left. But when I saw him step off Mom's and Dad's property, I swear that I could see those wings again. Those broken, and battered wings.
They had a glow to them though.

And then I finally realized what it meant to meet an angel amongst humans.
He was that angel.

Some talk about meeting someone who spoils them rotten, and someone who has no flaws, that those people are the angels.

But I think the flaws my brother had were the thing that made him an angel.
All the times where he gave himself, his own freedom, his already drained heart, and his understanding to people.
All the times where I caught a glimpse of him in his room, on his bed, with his head in his hands, softly shaking.
All the times where he stood in the places Mom was supposed to stand when her and Dad had a fight.
There was a comforting violence in him. Something peaceful, yet violent.

He was so young, yet he seemed to have the wisdom and understanding of someone old, someone wise.

My brother. He was an angel with broken wings.

And I had the pleasure to meet him.

Although we had some many fights, and he made mistakes, I still regret my actions.
I should've treated him better.

I wonder if he ever yearned for the skies.
To fly, to be free.
To let his heart beat again, without performing autopsies on conversations, fights and arguments he's had with Mom and Dad.

I wonder if he ever longed for silence in his mind.
A cease fire in his brain.

I wonder, if whenever he looked at the stars, if he wanted to reach out and touch them, return to them.

Many descriptions would fit him.

A dying star, the moon, a flower blooming in a harsh winter storm.
Yet, describing him as an angel with a body littered with scars, and a pair of broken wings fits best.
I wonder, if Mom and Dad ever actually tried, would I be able to meet him?
To meet my brother? To meet the person that is him? Not just the body, but also his mind.
His heart.

I wonder if he sighed with relief after he stepped out of this house for a final time.

I wonder, has he finally found a way to make these shackles that Mom and Dad put on him crumble?

Does he smile? Does he smile a happy smile at the things and people he likes?

Has he learned how to heal? How to love? How to forgive himself?
Has he learned what it's like to be loved?

I wonder if he thinks of us, too.
I wonder if he misses us, too.

I wonder if he has regrets.

I wonder where he is right now, and what he's doing.

My brother. He has been the best person I have had the pleasure to meet. And he might just be the strongest.

People say it's ridiculous to think that he could be an angel, much less an angel with a pair of broken wings.
But whenever I get in trouble, am in some kind of danger, it feels like there is someone with me, something giving me strength, and in my mind, it will always be him. My brother.

I met an angel with broken wings, in the form of my brother.