Betrayed God

Naturally I asked him why.
            Just mild irritation
            that mathematics seemed unfair that day.
            "They were five."
            As though the number was offensive
            in some fundamental way.
            And maybe that's why I became God at all.
            Because every time I build a case,
            every time I think humanity
            has finally become a hopeless place,
            some random person ruins it.
            A witness chooses not to flee.
            A stranger steps between the violence.
            Someone becomes what others failed to be.
            The parents listened and did nothing.
            The teachers saw and looked away.
            The authorities discussed procedures.
            The boy said "No."
            And joined anyway.
            So now five boys are learning consequences.
            My sister learned she's not alone.
            And I have learned at least one teenager
            possesses courage stronger than his bones.
            Stronger than instincts screaming retreat,
            stronger than caution, stronger than reason,
            stronger than every warning ever shown.
            Stronger than logic, stronger than history,
            stronger than previous damage sustained,
            stronger than memories involving my sister
            rearranging portions of his face.
            Or common sense.
            The jury's out.
            I still have questions there.
            Because helping girls who broke your nose
            suggests unusual wear and tear.

Then out she came, 
            My little menace.
            Split knuckles wrapped in borrowed gauze.
            The sort of grin that always means
            somebody violated several laws.
            Behind her stood another boy.
            Bruised cheek, bloody lip, black eye.
            And suddenly a memory arrived
            so fast I thought my brain might die.
            Winter, hallway.
            One passing smile.
            One terrible decision made.
            One offended teenage hurricane.
            One nose that urgently reshaped.
            I stared at him.
            He stared at me.
            My sister studied ceiling paint.
            The boy looked nervous.
            My sister looked prepared to faint.
            "THAT is the one who helped you fight?"
            "THAT one?"
            "The kid whose nose you broke in January?"
            Silence of biblical proportions.
            Now understand:
            I've watched friendships fall apart
            for less than accidentally sneezing.
            I've watched grown adults hold grudges
            with commitment quite astonishing.
            Yet somehow this poor wounded soul,
            this victim of previous assault,
            looked at five boys surrounding her
            and joined the fight by default.

@Betrayed_God I’m getting my pan and finding who said it 

@Betrayed_God You're not annoying, love ❤️

Listen carefully:
            Enough men.
            Enough to make even girls who fight like wolves come home undone.
            Enough to make daughters memorize survival before love.
            Enough that I had to kneel behind my sister with dull scissors tonight
            Trying to trim trauma into something almost straight.
            I am called God.
            Though tonight I feel less holy than enraged.
            Because my sister should have kept her hair,
            Her jacket,
            Her safety,
            Her night.
            And if you, men, cannot understand why this ignites fury in my chest,
            Then you have never truly loved a woman enough to fear for her.
            So answer carefully, dear humans, since morality's your art:
            Why do your sons learn cruelty long before they learn a heart?
            And answer quickly too, before another girl comes home
            Carrying pieces of herself in shaking hands alone.
            Answer carefully.
            My sister still walks home at night.

I cut it gently,
            Straightened edges,
            Tried to make the damage clean,
            Tried pretending careful hands could soften what she'd seen.
            And halfway through she finally broke.
            Not loud -
            That's the worst part.
            No screaming,
            No collapse dramatic enough for films or grieving art.
            Just one sharp inhale like somebody stabbed her somewhere deep,
            Then tears sliding silently onto the jacket in her lap sleeve.
            And she kept apologizing.
            Apologizing to me.
            For crying,
            For the hair,
            For bleeding on the fucking sleeves.
            As though surviving violence somehow burdened everyone around her.
            Then quietly she asked me if I still thought she looked pretty.
            And brother, if you've never felt your soul physically crack inside your chest,
            I pray you never understand what happened to me then.
            Because this girl once stood on counters wearing towels like royal gowns,
            Demanding I announce her entrance every time she'd twirl around.
            This girl once filled our tiny apartment loudly singing offbeat songs,
            Brushing all that chestnut hair while dancing badly to the radio.
            And tonight she couldn't even look herself at all.
            Tell me honestly:
            What kind of species teaches girls shame before safety?
            What kind of boys learn humiliation counts as victory?
            Because somewhere in this city there are cowards laughing still
            About the girl they cornered simply because they could.
            And tomorrow women still will walk with keys between their fists,
            Still text friends before dark streets,
            Still scan parking lots too quick,
            Still hear "not all men" whenever they describe their fear,
            As though statistics matter more than why girls disappear.

But five against one still leaves bruises.
            Still leaves blood.
            Still leaves girls
            Coming home trying not to cry while holding pieces of themselves.
            She sat upon the bathroom sink while I cleaned cuts from her face,
            Trying hard to crack jokes first because that's how she survives pain.
            Split lip twitching upward slightly.
            Eye already turning blue.
            Muttering, "You should've seen the other guy, I nearly killed two."
            Something inside me nearly came apart right then.
            Not because she's weak.
            Because this world keeps punishing women for existing in it.
            I raised her.
            I know her laugh before it fully leaves her throat.
            I know which songs she hums when nervous.
            How she overloads
            Her coffee with too much damn sugar every time she's tired.
            I know she acts sarcastic first whenever she's been frightened.
            So when she flinched tonight from pain while trying to pull off shoes,
            Every ounce of mercy left inside me fucking moved.
            Then I asked to see her hair.
            Silence.
            Brother, I've heard gunshots calmer than that silence felt.
            Her hands started shaking first,
            Then her mouth,
            Then everything else.
            And suddenly this girl who fights men twice her goddamn size
            Looked twelve years old again beneath those bathroom lights.
            She whispered, "Can you fix it?"
            Like the words themselves might break.
            And something inside me fucking caved.
            So I grabbed the kitchen scissors,
            Stood behind her at the sink.
            And shit, my hands were shaking harder than hers were, I think.
            Because every lock that hit the floor felt strangely catastrophic.
            Not because long hair makes women beautiful or pure or sacred.
            Fuck that!
            Women do not owe beauty to a violent world.
            But because they took something she had loved since she was small
            And turned it into evidence that cruelty exists at all.

@Betrayed_God You are amazing person, did you know that? And I said it a lot of times already, but I’m proud of you. ❤️ Are you okay, tho? 

And still you slept, or lived, or went
            Through days that never felt like spent
            On wondering if we were alright,
            Or if we cried at night.
            No calls, no knocks, no searching face,
            No sudden guilt, no saving grace.
            Just absence stretched into a line
            That never once pretended "they are mine."
            My brother stopped asking for you first,
            He learned that hope just makes it worse.
            My sister learned to pack her pain
            Like schoolbooks carried through the rain.
            And I learned something I still know:
            That children grow where no love goes.
            Not once did you ask how we live,
            Not once did you decide to give
            A sentence more than what was due
            To children still belonging to you.
            A year has passed - no voice, no sound,
            No moment where you turned around.
            As if we left and disappeared,
            As if we never were right here.
            But we were - we are - we always were,
            A truth your silence can't obscure.
            And still I catch myself at night
            Imagining you doing right.
            A useless thought, a wasted thing,
            A broken kind of offering.
            Because love, when missing for too long,
            Still learns the shape of where it's wrong.
            And even now, I sometimes ache
            For something you will never make -
            A once really needed mom.
            We grew up anyway, it's true,
            But not because of anything you do.
            We grew because we had to stand,
            Because no one came to take our hand.
            And that is all there is to say,
            No softer way to make it stay.
            No way to turn it into grace,
            No way to give it your erased face.
            Just this: we learned to be alone,
            And called it life, and called it home.
            And this is how I became a God
            And a father of my own siblings...

@Betrayed_God oh my god…this is so sad :( God, I always want to hug kids who need it :( I’m glad you were there, love ❤️ 

P.S. 
            
            Guys, please do not report me. I am not saying I am going to end my life and I definitely am not saying he should've... I just wanted to share the story that honestly shocked me.

And I’m always here for you, love. Anytime. Anywhere.  Love you, pretty boy ❤️

I really miss you! ❤️
            

Haven’t heard from you in a week… And I always worried and will worry about you… So, I’m checking in…