Brother

 

How do I articulate my experiences, my learning when I’m just beginning to understand them? How do you pass on wisdoms when you don’t understand how they got there? My brother needs guidance, he needs hope. He needs belief in the self. How do you articulate hope when no ones ever experienced the feeling before? I fear I have not the years to instill the lessons that I’ve learned, and I fear that I do not have the capability to articulate them in a way that would be of some assistance to my brother, if I ever understood where my wisdom originated. At what age can we look back and see the pattern that made us who we are? When can we look back and figure out what made us different from everyone else?  How can I explain this all in such a way that my brother, Jarick can understand it for what it is? How does one articulate loyalty to another person when no one has ever stood beside them? How do I teach someone else, when I’ve only just begun to understand the lessons?

There are two specific events that sent my consciousness into overdrive. Two shocking revelations that brought my belief system, and my faith in people crashing down. Both involving my younger brother and involving our pathetic excuse for parents. I suppose that's a bit harsh. They're not all bad, but they usually do more harm than good, and nothings ever really thought out, with either of them.

 

"A lock? Your sitting there, telling me, that there's a lock on the fridge?" I question in disbelief. "Yea, and the cabinets," came his quiet response. So quiet I nearly miss what he says. Nearly. My jaw drops, I stare into the phone, expecting my brother to somehow be able to see the horror slapped across my face. "Do they feed you?" I ask once my voice is found. "Yea." "Why would they lock the cabinets? Why would they lock you out of the fridge?" I question one more time, hoping the answer comes out differently this time. "How would I know? I don't have a clue. Dad says I eat too much, but I can't help it, I just get hungry."

 

My brother you see lives with our father. He moved there after things failed while living with my mother in Wisconsin. Jarick grew too wild, uncontrollable. Full of anger and rage, that my mother had no way of controlling or dealing with him. That or she simply gave up. She tends to do that more often than not. He soon got too big for her to discipline. To punish. He could do whatever he liked without consequence, when she grew frustrated and angry, things would turn into a screaming match. Nothing was ever solved, nothing was ever learned. Everyone thought he would have better luck with my father, back in Colorado. Or so everyone thought, but everyone forgets that Dad isn't one for keeping up with the consequences either.

 

My father answered. “Hey Dahling!" He skips over the r as he always does, and always will.

"There's a lock? On the refrigerator?" I spit into the phone.

"What?"

"I hear that there’s a lock on the fridge not only the fridge but the kitchen cabinets?"` My voice begins to rise and crack towards the end of the sentence. I pause, gathering myself, and allowing my "father" the chance to respond. Without the slightest hesitation he declares "Your brother likes to eat at night. We've got a house full of other people; he can't go eating everything in the house. There are other people to think about as well."

He's actually defending himself. I'm shocked, what sort of man decided to bar his biological son from eating? "Would you like to tell me that at least you feed the boy?"

"Of course we feed him," my father exclaims. He never has yelled at me. This time is no exception. That pleasure was always reserved for my brothers and Mother. For some reason beyond me I escaped that anger.

"He eats when everyone else in the house eats. You know I can't afford to restock the cabinets every time your brother decides to go on an eating binge. We've got other people to think about."

"Other people as in your step children. For god's sakes he's a growing teenage boy, you know they do tend to eat a lot."

 

First off I should admit that I'm no good at confrontations. My voice cracks, my hands get all sweaty and start to shake. Nor do I have the ability to speak my mind to a room full of strangers with their preconceived notions. And my father already has the idea imbedded in his brain that what he did is not only justified but right. But this, this action that my father's committed himself to is something different. This is something real and tangible, more real than my fears and anxieties. I can hold it in the palm of my hand. This is my little brother. Too young to get a job and feed himself. Too young to know how to overcome the difficulties that are our mother and father. I'm fighting for my brother and it appears to be that I'm the only one in the immediate vicinity doing so. No one ever gives him any sort of positive motivation or any sort of structured discipline. This is for my brother. My brother.

 

After arguing with my father for a good ten minutes I give up. It's like I'm talking to myself, but in circles. You see, my brother, Jarick, he's got all sorts of potential. He's the lead singer in a band. His art is amazing but mostly dark and haunting. His work has even made it into a few local art shows. The problem, you see, is his physical appearance. My brother's just turned fourteen and yet he's a good 6'7".He wears his hair long and black, with black boots, black jeans, and usually a black shirt. Now they're a few problems with that and where he and my father live. That end of town is fairly ugly, all the kids are looking to get into trouble and prove themselves. These sorts of kids are drawn to my brother, like a magnet. He’s been in numerous fights, and won his fair share. He was stabbed with a pair of scissors at school. His books have been stolen, his notebooks destroyed. School has not been easy on him. With all these trials, rarely has he had the determination and skills to complete his school work, and thus his grades have fallen, this has given my father another reason to ground him on top of the fights he gets into. He’s switched schools five different times in a single year.

I’m heading home from a friend’s house when I receive a call from my disgruntled brother. Exasperated he says “Will you give me a ride home from Grandma Charlotte’s?”

“Jarick it’s eleven why can’t Dad come get you?” I sigh.

“He says it’s too late, that I have to find my own ride home.”

“What? For real? He’s your dad; if he didn’t want to pick you up he shouldn’t have let you leave the house in the first place. Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

With no other options I agree to take him home but first place a call to my beloved father. Yet again, I have three major issues that I want to express explicitly to him. One, my brother was not over at some friends messing around and getting into trouble. He was visiting a relative. Two, he had school in the morning. You’d think that if he was so concerned about Jarick’s grades he would be sure that the boy would at least show up for his classes, and finally that my brother is still fifteen, does not have a car and is still a minor. Therefore, Dad is still very much responsible for him.

“Why are you refusing to come and get Jarick? He’s over at Charlotte’s, and you can’t drive ten minutes down to pick him up so that he can go to school tomorrow?” I can hear my frustration slipping through my clenched teeth.

“He should have called me sooner; I told him he needed to have a ride home.” His tone sounded as if he we’re helpless to change things.

“Dad, not to compare moms parenting to yours but she wouldn’t let me go anywhere, without first making sure that I had pick up and drop off information. She made sure that someone would bring me home if she couldn’t.” I stated vehemently

“But he didn’t call.” I sighed heavily. I could already see that I would get no where with him. We’ve had this discussion several times before. The only thing that ever changed was what we argued about.

“Fine, but you’re his dad. You do have responsibilities, one of which is making sure he goes to school and you should do everything in your power to enable that. You should know what he’s doing, where he’s going, and who he’s going to be with at all times. He is not an adult and still has a lot of learning to do. Whether you like it or not, you are his role model, he will learn from you. Don’t let his appearance confuse you.” I felt a little better after berating him. Getting it out of my system seemed to have helped somewhat but I knew it would last for very long. Soon I’d be back to worrying about Jarick. Whether he was gaining any good experience living there, or if he was even being feed.

“You know I know that Ash,” my father chided. As if I was the one who needed put in line.

“Dad I’m just concerned about him. I love you I just think you need to be more aware of your role in Jarick’s life.”

“I am aware, and I don’t think you need to worry about him, not with you trying to get through school.” My dad reminding me of my role as a college student.

I know very well what my obligations are to myself, but the obligations I have to my family come first. Love you Dad.” I said drawing our conversation to an end.

“Love you to punkin,” he said quietly.

I let the dial tone say farewell.

After these two particular instances, my worry increased ten-fold. How is he supposed to know, well anything from our parents. He had no strong role model. I’m not saying that I would be ideal, but I think I could help him overcome his anger, rage, and sense of hopelessness. I had to help him overcome this increasing pessimism and help him to find a happier place with himself and with the world. I saw what was happening to my brother, while it seemed to me, that everyone else turned a blind eye to him. I could be there, unlike my mother who lived several states away. Unlike my father, who had already accepted his sad lot in life, and had given up on making a new and better one.

My brother and I walk to the park on a cold November day. It had rained and the lights glistened like stars on the pavement, shined like hope in the darkness. We located the monkey bars and climbed up, perched atop them, like statues, gargoyles, silent watchers of the night. The temperature feels as if it’s dipping down lower and lower, testing our dedication to this dark night.

“How’re things going at home?” My words crystallize in the cool night air. My brother stands up, walking across the bars. A giant wraith cloaked in darkness, at odds his age, and his wisdom of this life.

“I don’t know, they’re haven’t been any huge blow ups, and I’ve brought most my grades up to C’s. I got my teacher to send home a note. I can leave the house now.” He grinned proud of his newfound freedom. I can image my brother, his immense formed forced to remain within his basement bedroom walls. This image in contrast to the one I see now, his frame swallowing up the entire sky. Stretching, testing his freedom. He jumps down to the wooden platform below. A hollow thud reaches my ears. The lights don’t quite reach us, though they strive to. I can’t make him out anymore.

“Sounds better.” I nod my head in accord. How do you begin a conversation like this? How do I instill everlasting hope, to plant a seed that will grow even in the darkest element? In form you’d think I was the younger, less worldly one how he towers over me so. How to get him moving forward in a better direction?

“You know, about the other night…” I pause weighing my words. “You said you had no hope for the future. That art school was out of the picture, you told me that after all this, once your free for good, you’d probably just wind up on the streets. That doesn’t sit well with me. Why don’t you think you can become something more?” My voices tapers off towards the end, but he hears my every word.

He turns away from the railing, gives me a sharp look. “You should know why. It’s suffocating there. I’ve got no money, too young to get a job; my grades are average at best.” His voice is soft, somewhat broken in places, defeated. “I can’t even drive yet, I’m stuck in this place, and you know Dad doesn’t have the money to put me through school.”

I stand up, stretching, reaching for those distant, impossible stars. Taller than him for once atop my monkey bars. I didn’t realize how slick it was up here; I slip but catch myself at the last minute.

“Smooth,” Jarick smirks. I don’t smile.

“You know that’s bull. I’m a prime example of having no money and still going to college. You could do it, just need to work on those grades. You can’t tell me that you couldn’t win money with your drawings, your sketches. Plus, they’ve got grants and scholarships galore. You can’t give up yet.” I take a deep breathe of the icy air.

“Don’t you know how hard that would be? You know, it doesn’t even matter anymore. I wanted to, wanted to be this amazing artist, to have my art everywhere, but it’s just gotten to the point that I don’t care. I just want out of here. I’m tired of the constant fighting at home and school. I’m sick of getting yelled at for absolutely everything, while the girls seem to be capable of getting away with murder. I can’t eat when I want; I’ve got no motivation anymore. Everything’s just too difficult, and my sketches, they aren’t that good.” He puts a little extra emphasis on ‘that’ and screws up his eyes towards the sky, perhaps in disbelief. “The band’s not doing too good either. Aaron won’t commit to any gigs.” He sighs. I know how much he loves his music.

“You know you can’t rely on that. People will let you down. Aaron doesn’t even show to half your practices. He just doesn’t have the dedication.” My brother has big hopes for his band. It’s just about the only thing he has hope for. I fear the possible failure of his band, and the crushing of that small hope. It would be extinguished, never to burn again.

“I really don’t want to tear down your dream, but you know that’s a really hard business to get into. I think you should have something a little more concrete you know. Something definite, like your art. Music...” I trail off thinking for a minute, grasping for words I don’t know, “music is just too susceptible to everyone else. Like your audience, if you can get an audience at first, your band members can quit at any time. They’re not reliable. I think the Art Institute would be great.” I smile, but the look on his face wipes it clean off my lips. I know I’m pushing for higher education, I am somewhat biased since I’m following that path myself. I don’t want him to conform to the traditional methods, but it’s something to fall back on at least.

“If you wanted to,” I add, “I just think it’d be good. Some structure, doing something you really passionate about, you could even learn some new techniques. You could even go to school for music, or graphic design. Just something concrete with a piece of paper saying you’ve done something.” He turned away, unfamiliar with the sound of hope, of choices and possibilities; an overload of opportunities. Needless to say, he never got that from our parents, it’s one of those things that I possess but don’t know how I came to hold it in my heart. “I’m making the same mistakes Dad made, ya know?” He speaks so softly that I nearly miss what he says. The trail of his breath in the air gives him away. “I’m getting into fights, getting crappy grades, cheating on my girlfriend, getting violent, all the anger…” his voice fades but comes back even stronger, “and I’m not all that stable, just like mom. I could go off any second.” It’s sad, how he gathers the faults of our parents and holds them inside, dressing himself in their flaws. In my brother’s eyes I know he thinks he’ll never be good enough. He can’t dream bigger or reach higher because he thinks he’s not worthy. Most of that, I believe is the fault of our mother. She sent him back here to Colorado. She couldn’t handle him anymore. They moved away my junior year of high school, my mom and two younger brothers. I stayed behind to finish school. I wanted to finish out where I started. Jarick got sent to my father after a year, my youngest brother stayed behind with Mom. He always was the odd one out. While Jarick and I have hazels eyes to match our parents, Tyler had blue. Jarick and I have always liked the same things for the most part; music, games, drawing, and art. Tyler never really cared for what we liked. He was a preppy boy for the most part. He liked athletics where Jarick and I enjoyed the arts, and expressing ourselves through that medium. Tyler never had the patience to finish a book, while Jarick and I devoured hundreds. My mother kept Tyler and sent Jarrick back, saying that he was too unruly. She couldn’t control him anymore. She sent him to our father.A dad who was never really there from the start. At least our mother knew how to be a mother. Our dad he’s just an overgrown kid, a big kid who could never think ahead. I remember the call I got when she told me he was coming back home. She said he had, “violent tendencies.”  “I can’t do anything with him, he doesn’t listen to me and he’s bigger than me. I can’t really enforce the punishments, he just walks out. He has no respect for me.” I remember hearing her take a drag from her cigarette. A deep breath in and the forced expulsion of air. That’s what I remember most now of my mother; the sound of her smoking, the sound, not the visual. Both our parents smoke, so I can see why my brother took it up. With Dad it was always the smell. I remember the smell of his brand of cigarettes. The smoke filling up the little white car that he would pick us up in every other weekend on the occasions he actually remembered it was his weekend. The smell, so suffocating. I see my brother lighting up, looking like a grown man, and a little kid caught in the act, simultaneously. His eyes, circled in black the flame revealing the deed. The flame reclaimed him from the darkness. He flips his Zippo shut, and squints his eyes, taking a long drag.“Thought you said things were better,” I say pointing to his black eye. I want to weep; I want to throttle my father. You can bet that is who is responsible for this lovely work of art that is my brother’s face.“Ash, you can’t do anything, and you know it,” he calmly states.“You could go somewhere else; get out of that hell hole. Go back to live with mom.” As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize my mistake. Reopening old wounds. Fingering the sore spot in his art. The unworthiness. Tongues of flame appear, licking my brother’s eyes in rage, burning away his control, replacing him with a pillar of fire. I can see through it, past the flames, to the hollow shell of ash. Ashes, ashes, down he fell, relinquishing his grasp on the better part of himself. Giving in to the tormented demons within. 

“You mean the mother that doesn’t want me around? The one who sees Dad reflected in my eyes. No, I don’t think so.” He shakes his head, his long dark hair, dancing in the night.

He’s right. There isn’t much I can do. I barely make enough money for tuition, books, and gas money to make it school, let alone live off of. He couldn’t stay with Grandma Charlotte; she couldn’t handle him when he’s in one of his rages. Plus, she’s beginning to forget things. My father’s parents are busy taking care of their failing parents. If he did go to our mother, I doubt that I would ever lay eyes on him again. He just can’t stay where he is. Child services is not an option. With his problems now among his peers, he would never be left alone in that system. He can’t stay where he is, not in a place where hope has been crushed by the force of reality and lack of money. Where my stepsister lives, with her fourth child on the way. Where my stepmother and dad have been thrown in jail this year. Where could he possible go? My parents do love him, but there is no hope, no cultivation of dreams, no morals, and no motivation for a better tomorrow. They’re resigned acceptance is killing my brother and his dreams. It’s stunting his growth intellectually and spiritually. He cannot grow to fulfill all his potential; he doesn’t know how to blend in with society, to go with the flow. His stubbornness deters that. He always gets picked on, and he has never learned to walk away from it. My dad has shown him to fight back. Not to be the bigger person and walk away. They think he’s a challenge, someone they can prove themselves to. He can’t walk away from a challenge; he only knows how to strike back. He can’t stay committed to a girl; our father’s shown him that as well along with my mother’s three failed marriages. We all have tempers even I. Somehow I’ve learned how to control it, but my brother he’s fueling it.

The prickling cold bites my fingers and nose, brings me back to the present. My brother staring at me, lost in my thoughts. I pull my coat tighter around me, as if that would save me from the cold and damp seeping into my bones.

“Sorry bub, but you’ve got to stop thinking like that.” My voice begins to rise and crack, a sure sign of my loose control over my emotions. He is right in my mind. His lack of faith is contagious, spreading like the cold into the marrow of my bones. He’d never been taught to look outside his immediate line of sight. He was never taught to search out the hidden possibilities, to reevaluate the situation time and time again in search of a solution.

“You gotta break the cycle. Stop that kind of thinking. Quit thinking your dad reincarnated and that no one wants you. I want you around, I want you to succeed even if it’s the hardest thing you ever do. You gotta think ahead, think of the consequences, think about who you might become. And you can’t let people, like dad, push you down. He’s your prime example of what not to become, you’re more than this, and you’re more than you.” I brace myself and ask. “Did you hit him back?”

“Yea,” he looked down, shuffling his feet, ashamed of his actions in the face of me. This emotion, so foreign to his face, rendered him nearly unrecognizable.

“Why?”

“He wouldn’t leave me alone, I couldn’t get away, and I just get so angry.”

“You know it really shouldn’t matter, restrain him, don’t hit him, than your just giving in, completing the cycle by becoming him. He’s just going to bring you down. His negativity, the fighting, I wouldn’t be surprised if that man doesn’t know a thing about positive reinforcement or constructive criticism.”

We start walking back to Dad’s; with everything my brother still has a curfew, even with me. I’ll be damned if I give Dad another reason to paint my brother’s face black and blue. After my brother’s departure, home safe and sound, I wander aimlessly, thinking. I flit from streetlight to streetlight, breathing in the silence in between the shadows, searching for solutions. My life has in many ways just begun, furthering my education was my first priority, but there’s now way my mind will sit still with these events unfolding as they are. My conscious, the core of my will refuse any type of concentration on college if my brother’s life fails. What will be the purpose of my success if I cannot pass my success and lessons onto others in order to better their lives? I see his hope dying, fading bit by bit. I see him letting go of himself, when he should be letting go of his anger and his resentment. I’ve seen no real progress come with his moving into my dad’s. He’s still so young; he’s still got a chance, even if he can’t see it for himself. Someone has to open his eyes. I can be that someone, unlike everyone else. I refuse to give up. I refuse to let my brother fade, to have his hopes and dreams die.

It begins to rain, startling me from my thoughts. I believe the time for thinking has come and gone. My footsteps echo up and down the empty streets. Taking me ever closer to my resolution, towards my brother’s salvation,

She thinks she’s going to save the world, my sister. She’s got a knack for trying to take on the impossible. I love her don’t get me wrong. She’s always been there for me, even when the situation infuriates her, like when she had to take me home. She’s a survivor.

Once she sets her mind to it, you have fun trying to make her let go. The sheer force of her determination could move mountains. She’s got belief, while I find faith in failure. Where I learn to expect nothing, she expects it all. I want to clear a few things up. First off, our parents aren’t that bad. They’ve just…given up on certain levels. Unfortunately, family is no longer a high up priority. I don’t know where my sister’s upbringing differed from mine, or how she got to be who she is today and she was the coherent one. She understood all the chaos that was our life together, when we were a family, when we were whole. She’s determined to fix whatever… this is, the negativity, to replace it with belief in self, belief in a better future. I want to believe, trust me I do, but that type of thinking, it’s beyond me. It’s just not wired into my system. I fear her disappointment when it all fails.

 

The sun’s rising. I can see the dawn’s bright fingers creeping over the horizon. I can’t live like this. I can’t stand the thought of my brother, dying, failing, and becoming a husk of his former self. I can’t stand the thought of him turning into my father, embracing the worthless feeling that my mother placed on his shoulders. He will not become another player in this cycle of never ending disappointment and failure. I’ve been walking all night; I plan on talking to the courts, seeing what could be done about switching custody to me. Monday’s fast approaching. I’ve got to set the wheels into motion. My friend, Nikole, says they could use another waitress at the bar across from campus. I’ll postpone my school at least until I can get this straightened out. It’s a sacrifice, life’s all about sacrifice. My brother surely deserves it, surely. I have to do this, my soul compels me. This has to be done or I’ll never be at ease. I’ve got to show my brother all the things my parents can not. If I fail, I fear all my experience, the knowledge I’ve gained, the lessons I’ve learned, will have all been achieved in vain.

 

You know what I fear most? Not becoming my father, not that loss of belief that my sister fears most, but destroying her belief in me. If I fail that’s the failure of all her principles; her faith in education, in self-betterment, her belief in overcoming all obstacles to be a better person, a better human being. I fear that if I fail her, I will break her, shatter the foundation of her self into a thousand crystalline pieces.

 

Author's Note

Any Feedback welcome. I wrote this for my fiction writing class, would like to know what you think.

Reviews

[Dutch Jr.]

The emotions of depression, sadness, and rage run very deep in this piece. You set that mood in describng your surroundings, such as when Jarick and Ash are in the park, the settingof a dark, cool night is perfect for the mood. With a few grammatical errors, this piece was extremely well written, exceptional vocabulary and articulation of your feelings, and I can feel the passion you had for this writing just from reading it. Unfortunately, this is a very realistic situation that many teenagers go through in this journey of life. But you embed a message of hope that sweetens this piece, which is what I like the most. Awesome job.

A few nit-picky things: When you introduce Jarick, you say he's just turned fourteen, but later on in the story, you say he's fifteen. Also, a fewof your word choices get redundant, such s "negativity." Mayb find some synonyms for a few of the words you see too many times, and put some variety in the piece. But overall, thiswas very moving.

[Mary Katherine]

I am left without words. The emotion, bitterness, longing - it is all so genuine. I feel like I am reading a diary, not a fictional short. Great job! Keep it coming.

[Ashley Black]

very nice display of emotion and a very good write. it's a very good piece with a good theme that leads the reader to think. very nicely done

[aftervision]

What will be the purpose of my success if I cannot pass my success and lessons onto others in order to better their lives?
How do you pass on wisdoms when you don’t understand how they got there? My brother needs guidance, he needs hope. He needs belief in the self. How do you articulate hope when no ones ever experienced the feeling before?

i love this -- i will return for more of this wonderful write

[Randy`s Princess]

Nice real nice I wish I was as good as some of the people on here your all amazing and I`m a stickler for fiction and fantasy with a little bit of a twisted plot I love it it`s nice :)

[Senseless whatever]

Good write. Your descriptions are good and you place the setting very well. First time reading I was confused on the timing, who was where and such. Some jumping back fixed it but you may want to look it over for that.

[LonelySoul]

as we go through the trials and tribulations of our youth,we all learn along the way,this gets turned into wisdom we wish to share with our siblings and friends,but some are too head strong,it can't happen like that to THEM,they sometimes feel bullet proof on the outside,but almost child like and weak on the inside and come off acting like the big tough guy or the bully in public,but go home and cry in the shadows of the bedroom...if this is your brother,what he needs most is a friend,not a door mat nor a puppet,but a person to stick by him when he's right,but also smack him up-side the back of the head when he messes up and tell him what he needs to hear,no matter if he likes it or not,truth is always better in the long run and your brother will thank you for being there...
as a fictional write,this could well play out in reality...point is keep up the good work,check spelling and grammer when needed,you show talent here in the write...well done

[Liza]

the reader sees and feels the care of a big sister that perhaps has taken on the role of caring guardian as the parents are not in tune with the true geniune love that all children need to develop confidence and feel loved. As the reader; I gain compassion and empathy for family and admire the older sister that cares so much.

A very talented writer that writes from her heart, really thinks and wants to be a good influence.

I related most to the writer when she said "she doesn't like confrontation" because somehow she chokes up; to me it was a sign that she fights to be heard but feels why invest the energy to speak to muted ears.

[Coyote Poetry]

Life can be fair. We must learn from other mistakes. I became better then my father who left 11 kids and five woman without love or money. The story is powerful. It was very long. But I couldn't stop reading the story. A outstanding story.
Coyote

[Ishan Sadwelkar]

Very intrigued. With a few exceptions of some lines being dragged, the flow was maintained. I liked the frankness you portray.

[James Watts]

In agreement with Dutch on this one. Give this a nice polish and this will be pretty good. It is a nice story, don't let it die.