Emily
A quiet life, I think, as I kneel next to Patrick. That’s all I ever wanted. A quiet, peaceful life.
I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately. Sometimes at night when I close my eyes I imagine that Patrick is not my brother, my tormentor, my abuser. I imagine I find the strength to leave him. Find the strength from God, maybe; or maybe not. Anywhere I can find it. I become stronger than I ever dreamed and I tell him: No more. I won’t live with you. I won’t let you hit me. I won’t be a part of this madness.
But here I am, kneeling beside him in an abandoned warehouse.
That man . . .
He kissed me. Just kissed me. I don’t know why I helped him to his feet. He just looked hurt and sometimes, I can’t bear to see things hurt. But I didn’t expect him to kiss me, that’s for sure. But it felt good, didn’t it? You kissed him back before you remembered everyone could see, you don’t know this man, it’s not who you are. I tell myself I didn’t, but I’m lying.
I steal a glance at him now. Around mid-twenties, with an easy, carefree smile despite the surroundings. Dark red hair, cut short, with a shadow of red stubble. No freckles. His hands are covered in tattoos, making him look dangerous, the sort of man you cross the street to avoid. And yet I helped him.
He walks through the crowd to the organizer, a large man in a suit sitting on an umpire-style chair overseeing the fights. The organizer hands him down an envelope and the man nods. He weaves through the crowd, to the makeshift bar in the corner, hands the barman a note and takes a bottle of whisky. He swigs it and then drops onto a barstool.
“Patrick,” I whisper, prodding him as gently as I can in the arm. “Patrick, it’s time for us to go. I think they want to set up for the next fight.”
Part of me wonders what it would be like if Patrick never got up. Maybe that’s a nasty thought to have about your brother, but Patrick is a nasty man. Even now, as I kneel down, pain throbs from my ribs where his giant fist beat me last night. And for what? What did I do that was so dreadful, so unacceptable, so evil that I deserved to be punched? I forgot to rinse off the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. Patrick’s the only family I’ve ever known and I tell myself I love him, but I’m not so sure of it.
Slowly, his eyes blink and he rolls onto his side. Propping himself up on his elbow, he squints at me. “What the . . .” He shakes his head, groans. “What the hell happened, Emily?”
“You lost,” I whisper. “The other man hit you and you went down.”
As if that needs explanation.
“Oh.” He grunts as he tries to stand, wobbles, falls back down. “Are you going to help me or not, for fuck’s sake?” he snaps.
Biting down my pride—sometimes it seems all I do is bite down my pride—I take him by the arm and help him up. It’s not easy. He weighs at least ten tons and he doesn’t help himself, flopping in my arms like a dead fish. After around a minute of panting and pulling, he wobbles to his feet. He waves me away, as if already forgetting that I’m the one who just helped him up. He looks around the arena with big dumb eyes, mouth hanging open stupidly, and then he glances at the victor and then to me. I see the cogs working in his face, trying to figure out how, exactly, he got beat.
“We should go,” I say quickly.
He ignores me. I see the moment it dawns in his features, a sudden tightening.
He wheels on me. “You helped him up!” He makes himself big like a Silverback standing at its full height, intimidating. I shrink down, feeling like there’s nothing in this world I could do against somebody so much larger than me. “You did! I remember! Why the fuck would you do that, huh? And . . . And . . .” He spits onto the concrete. “You kissed him, too!”
He takes a few steps until he’s standing directly over me. I know his expression well. It’s the I’ve-got-you-now expression. The expression that says there’s jack I can do to stop the beating that’s about to come. I want to delve inside of myself, find the strength, find some iron, but he’s three, four times my size and I know if I fight, the beating will only be worse. None of the crowd steps in to help. He might’ve lost, but he’s still big.
I want the blood-flecked concrete to open up and swallow me, but life isn’t a fairytale and Patrick lifts his paw, ready to strike.
“You’re a slut,” he says. He states it matter-of-factly. I hear the little girl in my head, the little girl who believes all the cruel things he says: You must be a slut if he says it like that. He sounds so sure. It’s absurd, I know. But sometimes self-doubt doesn’t listen to reason.
He clenches his hand into a fist. “You made me lose.”
I feel rooted to the ground. His fist sails at my face. I wonder if he’ll break any bones, a detached part of my mind wonders.
But then a tattooed hand catches Patrick’s wrist. Patrick turns; the man is standing right next to him. “Hit a woman, eh?” The man growls. “Hit a fucking woman?”
Patrick tries to pull his hand away. The man flings himself forward and brings his fist around in a wide arc. Crack! For the second time tonight, Patrick goes down.