Iris

Chapter Six

"Our lives begin to end the day we become silent about things that matter."

~Martin Luther King Jr.

***

He ambled with a broken gait down the hill. He was drowning in darkness yet sunlight tumbled down to the earth and swathed us all . . . except him, of course. 

Papa appeared behind him with sullen but not regretful eyes, like a child that's broken his toy and has to find a different amusement. Fatigue has replaced what anger has beaten out of him--much like the way he had beaten the disobedience out of my poor baby brother. 

As Phoenyx approached me, I could clearly see the blood and tears that streaked his face, tears under blood and blood under tears so I had no idea whether he had cried because of his wounds or Papa had beaten him because he had cried.

I don't know which I hoped it to be.

Words of pity pushed at my tongue but I could not find the strength to release them, I could not find the power to do the one thing I wanted to--lie once more to Phoenyx, tell him I was there for him, always, and that nothing would ever hurt him again. Assure him that this was the male warrior's way, make him believe that it was his fault, and not Papa's. I wanted, more than anything in that moment, to commit a most grievous sin: to tell a child that it was their fault their parent beats them. But I could not even find the courage to do that; I was embracing the disgusting role of the bystander, because I was still learning to look at him through our parents' eyes. I am just learning about how our world works. But it still hurts to see him, even though I know it's "his fault" because he was disobedient, therefore had to be punished. 

I tried to convey to him a message of hope with my eyes, tried to reach out and touch his soul, his mind, tried to soothe his injures with a look. But he wouldn't return my gaze; I didn't know, in fact, whether or not he saw me at all. I stepped forward as he passed me, lips parted to console him, arm outstretched to grab his sleeve, but custom and practicality caught me. Mama would have been mad if I touched Phoenyx when Papa was so obviously trying to discipline him through humiliation. And anyways . . . my interventions didn't do anything for him anymore.

They no longer, truthfully, even had the ability to put my own mind at ease. So I stayed still, knowing it would please Mama, please Papa, please everyone.

Sympathies are not for a little devil like Phoenyx. I had to just keep them to myself so I could try and survive in his stead.

If you asked me when this happened, I couldn't for the life of me tell you. There was so much blood and sweat and tears but it made no difference. This could have been one of many times Phoenyx came home more broken than when he left.

It is a great sin to acknowledge that seeing your brother beaten and your father disappointed and bored about it is . . . a normal Tuesday afternoon.

***

I, August Park, was a horrible person.

I admit it: I looked into Iris's dreams. Yep. That was me. I saw what she couldn't bear to see, what she couldn't bring herself to say in the light of day. But it wasn't like I did this for kicks. There were several things that were certain right now: Phoenyx was my friend; he was gone; Aphrodite had him; Iris didn't like Aphrodite; and I was still deciding whether or not to trust Iris. I didn't enjoy toying with people's minds, so while I was sick to my stomach with the reality of Phoenyx's home life, I sat back and thought long and hard about what this did to her.

Regularly, like some kind of macabre parade, Iris watched a little boy grow to be a bigger boy and that boy would hobble down that hill, blood spattered, fighting tears. She would see that he was shattered. And she would do nothing. I was angry. But I wasn't just angry with Iris. I knew there was never just one side to the story. And I knew the price she had had to pay for her nonintervention: