Dancing on my Brother's Grave

TRIGGER WARNING: This story is 100% real, and will involve explicit sexual abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, drugs and alcohol, death, and me questioning religion as a whole.
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My brother towered over me, a knife in one hand and a cooler in the other. A sinister smile was spread across his face, his eyes darker than I had ever seen them before.

"Please don't," my small voice cracked. He laughed in response, a real Joker kind of laugh. I squeezed my eyes tight, bracing myself for what would come. For a moment, I wondered if I was in a simulation because this didn't seem real.

I felt the weight of the cooler collide with my body and I let out a pained groan. I looked up at him, the knife still in his tight grasp. I held my arms in a cross, trying to protect my face. He scoffed, "I am your worst nightmare, and there's nothing that can save you."

Through the tears in my eyes I could see the golden cross that hung on the wall behind him. In that moment, my ten year old self finally started to wrap my head around religion. It had nothing to do with Hell, Heaven, or even being saved. It had everything to do with believing in whatever made you feel like you had the most power over everyone else.

I close my eyes once more, preparing to be the Martyr tonight.

When I open them, my brother is gone.

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"Dancing on my Brother's Grave" is the chilling and very real story of how I grew up with a brother who was determined to kill me, and alcoholic parents who weren't equipped enough to save me from the emotional torment and physical abuse I would go through even into my adult years.

From drawing in the church pews, running to save my own life, to daydreaming about the day I will finally dance on my brother's grave.