Far and Wide

One

He was ten.

I was eight.

Multiplication tables were replaced by therapist waiting room tables littered with magazines. Nightly lullabies were overheard screaming matches. My vocabulary was poisoned with words no third grader should know

Schizophrenia

Behavioral Hospital

Personality Disorder

my brother became the enemy. Someone who was meant to protect me became the nightmare I needed protection from. Not all demons come in forms of horned creatures from hell, some hide in the innocent forms, dwelling in the dark crevices of a tiny mind infecting every source of light.

There was no understanding for a young girl who knew only what she was told

"Johnny won't be home for a few days"

"Johnny won't be coming home again"

"He's sick."

"You don't want to say goodbye"

"Think he's dead. it''s easier"

There is no escape from pain that hides in twelve years of memories.

He was thirteen.

I was eleven.

Last time we spoke.

Called two months late for my birthday.

The trouble with keeping memories buried comes when others resurrect them.

"Aren't you that crazy kid's sister?"

"Whatever happened to Johnny?"

You cannot expect answers from someone who is questioning just as much as you are. No comfort can come from someone who can't find comfort themselves.

There is no need to worry about heartbreak because there is no greater way to be shattered then to be rejected by a sibling. A brother who threatened the boys who would one day break my heart finally had his first victim.