Letter #7: Your Sibling

30 LETTERS PROMPTS:
- Your Best Friend;
- Your Crush;
- Your Parents;
- Your Sibling (or closest relative);
- Your Dreams;
- A Stranger;
- Your Ex-boyfriend/girlfriend/love/crush,
- Your Favorite Internet Friend;
- Someone You Wish You Could Meet;
- Someone You Don't Talk to as Much as You'd Like to;
- A Deceased Person You Wish You Could Talk To;
- The Person You Hate the Most/Caused You a Lot of Pain;
- Someone You Wish Could Forgive You;
- The Person You Miss the Most;
- Someone You've Drifted Away From;
- Someone That's Not in Your State/Country;
- Someone From Your Childhood;
- The Person That You Wish You Could Be;
- Someone That Pesters Your Mind - Good or Bad;
- The One That Broke Your Heart the Hardest;
- Someone You Judged by Their First Impression;
- Someone You Want to Give a Second Chance to;
- The Last Person You Kissed;
- The Person That Gave You Your Favorite Memory;
- The Person You Know That is Going Through the Worst of Times;
- The Last Person You Made a Pinky Promise to;
- The Friendliest Person You Knew For a Day;
- Someone That Changed Your Life;
- The Person That You Want to Tell Everything to, But Too Afraid to;
- Your Reflection in the Mirror.

~*~

Dear P,

There is exactly one year, two months and eighteen days between us. I worked this out many years ago, when you first started using “because I’m older than you” as a reason against me. Needless to say, I soon fought back with my (dodgy) maths skills to produce this figure of all that stands between us.

One year. Two months. Eighteen days. 

Yet so much more stands between us than such an insignificant amount of time.

We were often treated almost as twins when we were younger. Bundled together, so similar in appearance that even now we are the only two that can be picked out as relatives out of the three of us siblings. And the less said about those idiots in your school year who teased you, asking if I was your girlfriend when we were grumpily sent out shopping together, the better. I think I still bear some mental scars from the idea. 

I think I was about thirteen or fourteen when I realised that I had to be the one in charge. I won’t deny that I’m something of a control freak, but I never wanted to be the eldest – or act like it anyway. But that’s how it happened.

We were on the school bus. A usual soggy, frozen winter morning which is so typical of northern England from about October to March. Nothing unusual to speak of. I was sat about two thirds of the way down the bus (on the top deck, as all the cool kids were). The bus system was regimented and widely understood: the older you were the further back you could sit. Try and sit too far back, and you would be made to move. Every year saw an incremental shift a few rows back, until you reached the top of the school and could claim the back seat – that is, if you weren’t lucky enough to have your own car by that point. Which we weren’t.

But not you. From your first day you’d carved out a seat in the very first row, and refused to move. You sat, day after day, year after year, surrounded by the youngest, gobby kids. I couldn’t for the life of me understand it, didn’t know why you didn’t want to sit near the back with the kids your own age. “I like to be able see where we’re going,” you told me once in explanation. I still didn’t get it.

I always kept half an eye on you though. I knew, even back then, that I needed to. That you might one day need my help. 

On that day, the younger kids were being unusually obnoxious to you. They normally left you pretty much alone, once they realised that you would never rise to their baiting questions, choosing instead to stare stonily ahead out of the window. But they’d clearly run out of entertainment on that journey, as they’d taken to writing things on the steamed up window behind your head, and drawing long arrows to above your head. Nothing especially bad, just stupid eleven year old “wit”. Of course you were completely oblivious, lost in your book. 

But I was fuming. You had done nothing to provoke them, and yet they’d chosen to pick on you, my quiet, oblivious brother. My rage was palpable, with my friends pausing in their chatter to ask what was wrong. My eyes were fixed on the main culprit, a generally snot-nosed and arrogant brat, and before I knew it I was halfway down the bus, storming towards them. The kids turned to look at me curiously, sneeringly. I knew they thought nothing of me. And why would they, when I still looked about as young as they were with my short stature and rounded face? But their grins soon disappeared when I furiously rubbed away all of their scribbles, leaving the window clear.

“What the hell? Who do you think you are?” demanded the bratty ringleader, only to fall silent as I whipped around to stare them all down. A couple of the giggling girls actually shrunk back at the unabashed hate in my flushed face.

“He’s my brother, and if you dare do anything else to him you’ll have to answer to me, got it?”

[There may have been some foul language in there, which I’ve cleaned up a little...]

You turned around in your seat to stare up at me bemusedly when you heard the commotion. The entire front of the bus was silent as I turned on my heel and stormed back to my seat, swinging into it as I tried not to burst into tears. 

I’d never confronted anyone before. Ever. I was much more of a wallflower back then, and never did anything to rock the boat.

I think that was when I realised that I could be strong. That I could stand up for myself, and for those I cared about. And I have done so, many times since then.

If there’s anything I hate, it’s people picking on vulnerable people. And you were vulnerable, although you’d never admit it.

We really could not be more different, considering how close in age we are. And I know that I have caused you a lot of hurt as well as help, both intentionally and unintentionally. I’m not sure you’ve ever fully forgiven me for our messed up childhood, as you were passed about like a package in Pass the Parcel so mum and dad could stay with me in hospital while I was ill. I’m sure you still blame me for your lack of self-esteem from when I discovered the power of sarcasm, and my too-sharp retorts sometimes.

And that’s okay. Because I’m not sure I’ll ever forgive myself either.

But on the other hand, I’m not sure I can forgive you either, for some of the things you have said and done when you lash out in anger, in confusion, in fear. You have such a blinkered view of the world that you can only see the harm that people can do to you, and are blind to the harm you can cause yourself.

So really, all I can say to you is sorry. But also, that I will always have your back, just like that day on the bus so many years ago.

I really am so sorry.

-         -- Demi  xo.

My brother and I, aged about 3 and 2 respectively