He's not here. In the mall parking lot, where he was supposed to be waiting because he had been in line first at Game Stop and didn't want to wait in the store two minutes when it was my turn.
Unbelievable.
Actually, no. He does this all the time, little things that marginally improve his life and majorly screw up mine. He's left me at the mall so often that I can find my way home in the dark, the pouring rain, or the thickest fog San Diego has seen in ten years. I know it was the thickest fog San Diego has seen in ten years because Dad said so over dinner later that day while Drake texted Amy, the girl he'd ditched me for.
I can't hold a grudge very well. If I could, Drake would probably treat me with more respect. Every time he screws me over, I get mad at him. It doesn't affect him, though. Not really. And then he does something stupid or funny or human, and I let it go; because he's my brother and that's more important to me than having to walk five miles home.
When I get home, Drake is in the kitchen, making a mess. Typical.
I'm in the living room, I can see him through the widow, doing something with spray cheese.
"Thanks for the ride home, Drake!"
He's going to say something stupid and redundant now. That he hadn't give me a ride home, or something to imply that he'd forgotten, or there was a girl, or something on TV that he just had to see.
Except, he's not. He's sneering.
"Didn't you want to be left at the mall? Didn't you want and excuse to go back inside and talk to Mark some more?"
"Mark who?" What the hell is he talking about?
"Mark. At Game Stop. You were flirting with him."
Oh. I get it, now. This is just more of him freaking out because I'd told him I'm bisexual.
I realized it six months ago, Craig and Eric helped me figure it out. Not like that, they just mentioned during a ninja movie marathon that I was a lot more fixated on the shirtless ninjas than the skanky girl they were fighting over.
We talked about it. They were so understanding, so accepting and loyal. As straight and out of their element as they were, they were there for me when I needed to talk, and they agreed not to tell anyone. I had asked them not to tell anyone, that would come out of the closet eventually, but I just wanted to get used to the idea myself before I started telling people.
Two weeks ago, I told Drake. I wanted my brother to know, be on my side and used to the idea before I told our parents.
Drake freaked out. He called me a faggot, accused me of hooking up with half his friends and asked if I "wanted" him. He even tried to move my stuff out of our room, but gave up and wound up sleeping on the living room himself for four days. Dad and Audrey hardly noticed, they're so used to us fighting. Then he started acting like it never happened, until now.
"No, Drake. I don't know 'Mark', I wasn't flirting with him, and I didn't want to go back to the mall. I wanted to go home."
He doesn't say anything, just continues on with his mess-making.
I don't want to say anything either. I don't want to confront him, make him address his problem with me and fight about it. But I really don't want to go back to trying to pretend everything is the same, except for a tantrum on his part when he can't pretend. We need to fight about this, it's the only way to make him acknowledge the problem so he can start to get over it.
"Dude, what is your problem? Why does this bother you so much?"
Nothing.
"Seriously, did you ever have a problem with someone who was bisexual or something? Have you ever even met someone who wasn't straight?"
The spray cheese can is empty now, he picks up a can of cooking spray, and still says nothing.
"DRAKE! DRAKE! DRAKE!"
No reaction. What is he doing anyway? Just emptying all the spray cans into a mixing bowl?
"We're going to have to talk about this eventually."
He glances up at me; "Talk about what? How disgusting you are?"
"Yes! Let's talk about why you think I'm disgusting."
He's ignoring me again. Hell no. We're talking about this.
I barge through the swinging door to the kitchen to yell directly in his face that gay is okay. I'm going to…
...slip on a puddle of slime and start falling backwards. I see Drake turn, reach out with his left hand. He's going to try to stop my fall, because issue or no issue, he's still my brother and my best friend. He still cares.
Except, he's grabbing my chin and shoving my head directly into the corner of the kitchen counter as I'm falling.
My head hurts, the room is spinning and Drake's blurry face I glaring at me. I try to stand up, but I can't coordinate my movements enough to even sit up, I'm just floundering around on the floor.
Wait, I can't get up because Drake is holding me down. We're wrestling and my head is throbbing and I swear I can see stars.
We're the only ones home until tomorrow, when Megan's out of state Oboe concert has ended and the look on Drake's face is...murderous. I gather what strength I can, shove Drake off me and start army-crawling towards the front door. Drake shoves me down, knocking my arms out from under me.
His right forearm is across my shoulder blades, pinning me to the floor and his left hand-it's not.
He's not.
It seems one of us is having a moment of temporary insanity it doesn't matter who I just need to get away this will make more sense later I must have messed up some nerve ending locations or something when I hit my head because Drake's hand is not on my ass. It's not.
This is not real.
This is not happening and Drake's hand is definitely not sliding around my hip to put his hand on my crotch, except that this is real.
The person who is my brother in all but blood is pinning me to the kitchen floor and squeezing my cock and I'm trying to get him off me, to get away but I can't because the room is tilting, I'm dizzy, I want it to stop.
"Get off Drake!"
I'm trying to get up, shove him off, anything. He's putting his knee in my back, holding me down while his right arm leaves my back. I push up with my arms, I'm going to knock him off, I feel him sliding back, it's over! I just have to get to the door-
His body slams into mine, once again my arms are being knocked out from under me and my torso is slamming into the floor. My head is spinning, but not as bad as it was before, my head is clearing, yes! This will end soon, my strength is returning, I'll get away!
And Drake knows it, too. His body is still on top of mine and his left hand is still on my dick, but he's not bothering hold me down with his right arm. I push up again, I'm stronger than him, he doesn't weigh as much as me, this will be easy-
I freeze.
There's cold metal on the back of my neck.
He wouldn't.
He is.
He's holding the blade of a rather long and sharp knife to the the back of my neck.
I panic, jerk to get away-ow! There is a drop of blood sliding down my neck. He's squeezing my cock, harder and harder, it hurts, I move again, the knife goes deeper, I stop moving.
"Drake, stop it. Get off me. A knife, Drake? You're my brother, stop, Drake-ow! STOP!"
He doesn't. He's still pushing on the knife and squeezing, to the point where I know there's going to be bruises.
"STOP! STOP IT! DRAKE! STOP!"
I can't stop yelling this, "STOP!", he's lifting the knife off, and now there's pressure again an inch above the cut, it's cutting deeper and deeper, there's even more blood this time, I think I'll need stitches. I stop yelling.
The blade lifts off, out of the cut and he moves the knife so now it's laying flat on my neck, not cutting.
I get the message; no moving, no noise. Why isn't he talking?
His hand is sliding up, to my belt buckle, undoing it. He's undoing my button, pulling down my zipper, his hand slides to my left hip, pushing down, "NO!" I thrash once, the knife digs in again, I stop.
He leaves the blade where it is, buried a quarter of an inch in my neck while he lifts his body off mine so he can shove my pants and boxers down, knocking off my right shoe, leaving my pants bunched around my left calf.
Now his knees are in between mine, pushing, spreading- "NO!"
I fight him, he can't, I won't let him, the knife is so far into my neck that it's scraping against my vertebrae as I struggle. It's the sound of metal scraping against bone that convinces me stop. Anyone who has cooked with meat has likely heard that sound, I have, but not applied to my body.
The knife is staying where it is but his fingers are sliding down my crack, two are-ow ow ow- forcing their way into my body. The knife is flat against my neck and his fingers are moving. Inside me.
My throat hurts, which is weird, why does -aaugh- my throat hurt it shouldn't -ow ow- he's shoving in another finger now, it burns, my throat it's... I'm crying. Damnit, I'm crying!
Fuck. I'm trying to stop crying and I can't. I can't. I'm hurting and I'm scared because he's pulling his fingers out now and I can hear him unbuckling his belt and pushing down his pants.
Drake tilts the knife so the blade is sitting against my skin, ready to cut. I can feel his cock against my opening and he starts pushing. FUCK! It HURTS! If he moves I'll tear! He's ripping me. I'm lightheaded because I'm screaming, I stop for air so I can keep screaming and the sound of metal on bone is back. I hadn't even realized he was cutting me again.
Inhale exhale. Inhale exhale. I have to stay calm. It would be so easy for him to move the knife to my throat, or put it through my back. I don't want to die.
My head is pounding from all the screaming. I need to focus on that. Not my brother's cock tearing me apart, not the knife in my neck.
My head hurts. My head really hurts. Just my head. I pressing my hands flat against the floor, the cold feels good. My head, the cold fl- ow!
He's pulling out and it hurts even more. Am I crying again or am I just crying harder? Now he's pushing in in in. FUCK! This BURNS! Make it stop make it "stop make it stop make it stop!" It does, and I breathe now because I can now and the pain is fading enough that I can feel other pain. Drake is cutting my neck. Not deeply, just cut after cut after cut.
There is a small pol of blood under my throat now. I stop moving, stop breathing, and he stops cutting. The knife is flat against my neck again, but I don't dare so much as breathe.
Not until he starts moving again. I'm staying still, trying to keep my breathing even.
He's thrusting in, pulling out. Over and over. It goes on and on. There's pain, this hurts, it burns and there's nothing I can do. Will he kill me when he's done? How much of this did he plan?
I feel pressure on my back, his body is flat against mine, his chest sliding against my back with every thrust, his hips meeting mine with every push in. His left hand has a bruising hold on my hip.
Drake picks up the pace, I can hear him panting, now he's moving faster, harder. My body is rocking with every thrust.
I feel that some of the blood on my neck has dried, and some cuts are still bleeding.
This is happening.
Any state of shock I was in is gone, and any protection or numbness that gave me is gone.
The pain intensifies although he's not doing anything different. And now I can feel blood running down my balls, mu cock, the insides of my thighs, I can feel the pool of blood. He really is tearing me apart. I think the pool of blood under my neck is bigger, but I'm not sure...
Aaugh! He's moving faster, rougher. His body goes rigid, he groans and I feel him. Inside me.
Coming.
He's dead weight on my back now. Panting, trying to catch his breath. His grip on the knife is slack now, I could get away. Maybe.
I'm not sure I can move. I feel sick.
Drake pushes himself off me, pulling out, rolling to the side and laying on his back on the kitchen floor and...
I need a shower. Now. I'm dirty, disgusting I need to get rid of this fucking blood and Drake's-
I just need to shower. And then sleep. I walked five miles to get home and then had to deal with Drake and his... Drake is a bastard. I want to shower and sleep.
I reach out, grab the counter and pull myself up. Standing up makes my head spin, between that the pain all through my body it's a miracle I can stand, even with the counter supporting most my weight.
My head clears, mostly. I'm yanking my boxers and pants back on and... relief. Well, some. I'm going to sleep in jeans. Multiple pairs with a belt on each pair. Maybe I'll even get a padlock from the garage to put on my belt to keep my pants on.
Stairs. They're ahead of me. Just cross the entryway and get up the stairs. I'll crawl if I have to to get out of this fucking kitchen.
Drake is in front of the refrigerator now. I'm walking, well, staggering out of the kitchen, everything hurts. I'm passing Drake, I glance at his face...
I snatch the car keys off the counter, close the front door behind me. I'm in the car, lock the door, lock the door! I never did put my shoe back on, did I? Oh well, I'm three blocks away from the house now, too late.
Let's see, the hospital is north of here, so I'll need to turn soon...
I don't want to go t the hospital. I don't want anyone to see what Drake did to me, what I was too weak and stupid to stop. I don't want to tell anyone what happened, spell out my impotence to whichever cop will be assigned to my case.
I definitely don't want to have to explain Drake's arrest to our family when the time comes, but I'll have to.
The look on Drake's face was unremarkable. You'd never know what he did to me from just looking at him. He was going on like he hadn't done anything wrong. Just like he always does whenever he's screwed me over.
He'll do it again, because he always does. Drake doesn't care when he hurts me and he always, always, does it again.
I can't stop him from hurting me. Our parents never put a lot, or, really, any effort into stopping him. If I want to save myself from this endless cycle of abuse I'll need the help of something stronger than myself.
I need to press criminal charges against my best friend.