Okay, okay, so I had to hurt him…but at least I didn't make you watch.
I still own nothing.
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Trey lifts his head and wearily opens his eyes when the door cracks open just wide enough to admit his little brother. He's still sitting, hunched up on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest. Ryan's initially no more than a shadow, his small form backlit by the brightness of the room beyond—not even completely in focus as Trey's eyes struggle to adjust after being closed for such an extended period of time. The lamp on the bedside table still emits the room's only light. But, even in its soft glow, the sheen on Ryan's face is clearly visible. Even if he didn't already know, Trey would instantly see in the semi-darkness that Ryan's face is wet—that he's been crying. And if he wasn't already acutely aware, Ryan's eyes—red and swollen—would tell Trey that he's been at it for a while.
"You okay?"
Ryan looks to where his brother's sitting on the floor. He doesn't have to ask to know why Trey's chosen that particular spot, with his back propped up against the wall of their parents' bedroom. He knows that Trey can hear everything from where he sits and he appreciates that Trey hasn't moved—that Trey let him handle the encounter with their father—even though it must have been hard for him not to intervene. Even though it must have taken every last ounce of self-restraint for him to fight his natural instinct to rush in and protect his brother. Ryan recognizes that it must have been pure agony for Trey to remain passive in the midst of the muted sounds of leather striking flesh—when his grunts of discomfort escalated into cries of pain—or as they ended in pitiful whimpers. Ryan's been on this side of the wall far too many times to not know what Trey heard—or the emotions that coursed through him while doing so.
Ryan nods his head slightly in response because he doesn't trust his voice, he doesn't trust himself, and because the tears are still coming. He crosses the floor and climbs onto the bed that the brothers share. He lies on his stomach to avoid putting pressure on his buttocks and the backs of his legs, both of which sting mightily from the sharp bite of his father's belt. He wants to be brave. He tries to be brave. He wills himself to be brave. To stop crying. Stop the tears. But he can't—so he lowers his head into the crook of his arm and he sobs.
Trey watches his brother from his position on the floor. He waits for a full minute—gives his brother some space—some time. When his internal count reaches 60, he slowly rises. And even that takes considerable effort. Because he's been sitting still for so long—and because the burden of the evening continues to exert its tremendous pressure on him. A pressure so overwhelming, so real, so profound, that Trey's certain that at this very instant he weighs far more than the 80-some pounds he knows that he is. He wants to go to his brother—to comfort him. But he doesn't want to be condescending. He doesn't want to baby him. Not after the courage it took for Ryan to stand up to their father tonight. Not after the courage it took for him to stand up to Trey.
He slowly crosses the room to the dresser the boys share. He opens the top drawer, reaches in and pulls out an undershirt. He goes to the bed, sits down and puts a reassuring hand on his brother's shoulder. He leaves it there and waits patiently until Ryan finally looks up and takes in a long, shuddering, breath. The tears have stopped, but his face is still red, blotchy, snotty. Ryan drags the side of his index finger and hand across his nose almost angrily as he props himself up on his elbows.
Trey hands him the clean shirt. "Here. Use this—blow your nose, even—I don't care."
"Thanks." Ryan mumbles. He sits up, swings his feet over the side of the bed. Remains seated, even when the pressure of his body's weight amplifies the ache coming from his newly garnered wounds. He takes the shirt from his brother and roughly wipes it across his face a couple of times.
As Ryan swings his feet from the bed, Trey's eyes are drawn to them. He notes the unfamiliar sneakers. The Adidas with the conspicuously penned blue middle stripe.
"Nice kicks." He comments.
"They're Tommy Browning's. Mom made me—" Ryan's horrified when his voice catches, when the tears start anew. "Crap." He whispers to himself, burying his head deep into Trey's shirt—willing himself to stop crying—frustrated when he can't. He's so busy with his internal struggle that doesn't even feel the release of pressure on his shoulder as Trey removes his hand. He doesn't feel the bed dip and rise as Trey stands, or hear his brother go to the bedroom door. He has no idea what Trey intends to do and no chance to stop him, before Trey yanks the door open and yells into the other room.
"Dad, I gotta pee."
"Knock it!"
"Seriously! I'm going to piss my pants."
"You should have thought of that before you lied to me."
"I swear, I'll go straight to the bathroom and come straight back."
"I said 'no,' now shut that goddamned door—shut your goddamned mouth—and don't let me hear from you again tonight."
"C'mon, Dad. I wouldn't ask if I wasn't serious."
"So help me—"
"Honestly, Dad, my teeth are floating." Trey's pleas have taken on a desperate quality and John finally relents.
"Straight to the bathroom, straight back. If you take any more than two minutes I'm coming after you."
"Gotcha, thanks."
It's less than two minutes later that Ryan hears the sound of the toilet flushing, the sink running and Trey's returning footsteps. They stop momentarily as Trey mutters another "thank you," which his dad returns with another rebuke. The bedroom door opens and Trey enters. He's wearing a shit-eating grin that confirms that he's up to something. Not that Ryan didn't know he was up to something the minute he heard the odd request to use the bathroom.
Odd—because Ryan and Trey have both launched a stream out their bedroom window more times than he can count in an effort to avoid running into their father in the middle of the night when he was pissed off or drunk or both. Odd—because it makes absolutely no sense that Trey would ask his dad to use the bathroom and risk incurring his wrath, when all he had to do was turn off the light, open the window and stand on the ledge. But, at least Trey's little diversion has done one thing. It's taken Ryan's mind off the tears—off the pain. In the face of his confusion and his curiosity, he no longer harbors any urge to cry.
Trey's walks over, holds out his arm. His outstretched hand holds two round white pills. "Here, take these."
"What are they?"
"Motrin. It'll help."
"They'll get stuck in my throat without water."
"Here." Trey holds out the wet washcloth he's carrying in his other hand. "You can suck some off of this."
"Thanks." Ryan collects enough water in his mouth to wash down the pain killers and then does so.
"Now use that to clean yourself up. You don't want Mom to think you're still crying when she comes in here or we'll have to sit through even more of her sappy crap when she tucks you in."
Ryan thinks about it for a second before he answers. "I like it when she tucks me in."
"That's just 'cause you still believe her bullshit."
"What're you talking about?"
"That crap about how things are going to get better—about how she's going to make sure everything's okay—she's going to keep us safe. It's all bullshit. Make-believe—right up there with Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny."
"She is trying." Ryan responds quietly.
"No she's not—and you're an idiot if you think that she is."
"She told him to stop." Ryan's not an idiot, so he knows his brother's wrong. He's certain of this, because his mother had stood in the doorway of the bedroom and yelled at his father to put down the belt—demanded that John stop hitting the boy after Ryan lost count of the number of blows. And John had stopped. He'd flung the belt aside in undisguised disappointment and disgust in the way the little boy could not contain his emotions—or his tears. He'd dismissed him with a derisive, "You'd better get your shit together before your dick falls off, you little pansy."
"Yeah? So what? She always tells him to stop. Has it made any difference—like ever?" Ryan thinks about it for a few seconds. Shakes his head—still not understanding what Trey has decided is so important for him to see. Trey's decided that after tonight—and after getting the crap kicked out of him trying to break his parents apart a few weeks ago—Ryan needs to know some certain, basic truths about their mother. Because if Ryan's old enough to get his ass handed to him on her account—well then he's old enough to put his current image of his mother on ice.
"She's scared of him."
"No shit. We're all scared of him. It doesn't mean she couldn't have stopped him from hitting you tonight if she wanted to. She didn't want to, Ryan—or maybe she just didn't want to bad enough."
"No." Ryan's still shaking his head. "You can't stop Dad when he's all pissed off like that."
"Sure you can. I do—I was going to—until you told me not to."
"You know what I mean. He was still going to hit someone—you if not me."
"So?"
"So—she didn't want to get hit."
"I didn't want to get hit, either." This is delivered so softly that Ryan almost misses it.
"She couldn't get between Dad and me. You wouldn't have let her—just like you weren't going to let me."
"And that's my point, exactly, Ryan. I always get between her and Dad—and she always lets me. Hell, she expects me to." Trey spits out the words with such rancor that it leaves an acrid taste in Ryan's mouth. Ryan is unexpectedly uncomfortable—uncharacteristically timid in his brother's presence. He's overwhelmed with the sense that Trey harbors the same bitterness towards him as he so evidently holds for their mother.
As Trey's silence lengthens, Ryan even mistakes his brother's pause as a tacit acknowledgment. He realizes with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that Trey's right—and what makes him so nauseous is the accompanying realization that he's just as guilty as their mother in this respect. He relies on his brother to protect him, also.
"You always get between Dad and me, too." Ryan's voice is barely audible. "You think I'm just like her—I'm just like Mom." He finally whispers, his eyes suddenly wet again, secure in the absolute knowledge that his brother resents him deeply.
"Oh, God, no! Ryan!" Trey's quick to reassure his brother. But Ryan doesn't even hear him over the impossibly loud sound of his own heart thumping in his ears.
"I expect it, too, Trey. I always know that you'll be there for me. You always are."
"Jesus, Ryan! No! There's a difference—a huge difference. You're eight—you're my little brother—and you've never, ever—not even once—let me take your place without putting up a fight. You're nothing like Mom. You're the exact opposite of Mom." Relief washes over Ryan in successive waves with the comprehension that his relationship with his brother remains intact.
"All I'm trying to say is that you shouldn't let her off the hook when she comes in here later to tuck you in, just because she says all the right words." Trey continues. "Just because Mom says all that crap doesn't make it true. It's just something she does to make herself feel better. To let herself off the hook. We look after her, Ryan. It's not the other way around. Don't you forget it."
And as he finally gets what Trey's telling him—as he recognizes it for the undeniable truth that it is—it occurs to Ryan that he should feel a lot crappier than he does right now. But he doesn't. The relief he's still experiencing from the reassurance that Trey and he stand on solid ground far exceeds the disbelief, the disappointment, the fear he should be experiencing in the wake of being forced to open his eyes to his mother's weakness—to her indifference. So he comes to the inevitable conclusion that somewhere deep inside, a part of him must have already known—maybe always known.
"Before I forget." Trey reaches behind him, lifts the back of shirt and pulls a bottle from the waistband of his jeans. He leans down, raises his pant leg and takes a smaller bottle from where it had been secreted next to his calf, held in by the elastic of his athletic sock. Ryan watches incredulously.
"How could you forget?"
"Oh, and the best part—" Trey reaches into his front pocket and pulls out two cigarettes and a pack of matches. He waggles them in front of his brother's nose enticingly before jumping onto the desk, opening the window and climbing onto the sill.
"C'mon, Ryan, we've got another hour before Mom comes in here."
"You're crazy."
"I know."
After Trey disappears out the window, Ryan waits a full half-minute—the time it takes his newly heightened sense of brotherly fidelity to beat the crap out of his innate desire for self-preservation—before he gets up—and gingerly follows.