Offend In Every Way

"It's not my problem! The little fag is the one who ran away, how the fuck was I supposed to know!" She yelled.

I could hear their screams through the thin walls of our apartment. I covered my ears, blasted my music, yelled, did everything in my power to block out the screeches from down the hall. Nothing worked.

"Well you where here all day! You couldn't fucking notice that he was gone!" he yelled at her.

I could hear the frustration in their voices. The anger that it held towards eachother, not at my brother. But he wasn't to be left out. Soon, they would start cursing his name. Regreting that they ever had him.

But then again, they've been doing that ever since he was little. I remember it all. Like a bad dream that haunts a little kid until his mommy comes and assures him that it will all be alright. But that wouldn't be happening to me. My mother wasn't about to barge in and cuddle me and tell me that monsters don't exist. She hasn't done that once in the 15 years that I've been on this earth, and to be honest I'm sure she never will.

As I dwelled in my thoughts, I could still hear them screaming. Every pitch of their voices; every foul dirty word that little kids where tought not to say that fell from their lips; every object that was thrown and hit the ground with tremendous force that it sent peices of it flying everywhere. I heard it all.

"Because of your ignorance this is what happened! You stupid bitch!" he yelled at her.

I could hear the loud slap that followed those words. I've had enough. I gathered up the courage that had slowly been slipping away from me in the form of tears and walked into the hallway. I turned a corner here an there until I got to the entrance of our small dirty kitchen. They where still yelling at eachother, not even noticing that I was standing there hearing them. I saw bottles shattered on the floor, blood on the table from my moms mouth that resulted from the blow she recieved from my dad. I saw me fathers' face getting redder and redder with every word he yelled, and the urge that was growing inside of him to hit my mother once more.

"He was your fucking son too! This is your fault as well his! You ignored him just like I did, just like Joan did!" She yelled.

I lost it then.

"I never ignored him," I managed to whisper. Finally, my parents realized I was there.

"Oh Joan, we didn't know you were there," my mother said suprised. I glared at her. It disgusted me how she could have gone from yelling to being sweet from just realizing I was there.

"I never ignored him," I repeated.

"What?" My father asked.

"I never ignored him," I said a little more loudly.

"What are you talking about sweetie?" my mother asked.

"I never ignored my brother!" I yelled.

It was finally coming out. All those years of anger I felt at my parents for choosing to treat my brother like a dog. I was always the 'favorite' and I hated it. I always asked my mother to love my brother more. She would ignore me until I changed the subject, then she would start listening to me.

I wasn't a spoiled girl. I may have been the 'favorite' but I was never snotty or bratty. They didn't treat me well enough for me to turn out like that. While I may have been the 'favorite', I wasn't treated that much better than my brother. It just ment that I was paid attention to once in a while, that they spoke to me in a sweeter tone, that I wasn't constantly ignored.

But my brother, he was mistreated almost to the point of physical abuse. They never dared to hit him, though. The only thing that was stopping them was the threat that they might get caught. And believe me they would have; they would have left some pretty nasty bruises on him.

"Oh honey, you're just shaken from what happened. We all are.." she said to me, rubbing my shoulder. I clenched my fists as the anger rose inside of me. I took a deep breath and slapped away my mothers hand.

"Liar," I said.

"What?" she asked again.

"Don't lie. You could fucking care less that he's dead." I said coldy.

"Joan, of course we're upset." she said, still trying to touch me. I once again slapped her hand away.

"Don't Lie! The minute we got that fucking phone call saying they found his dead body, you were glad. You where happy until it hit you that this ment funeral costs. That it ment money. And then you got mad. Not once since they called have you even pretended to be sad about the death of your son." I said angrily. She looked shocked, like if I just slapped her in the face.

"You never once loved him. You ignored him. You made him feel like dirt. The only reason he survived you was because there was people who did love him. People who made up for your lack of love. People that replaced all the hurt he felt, all the lonliness, all the neglect.

They gave him comfort, joy, a family outside his own. I loved my brother, he was my best friend, the only person I could talk to. He was there for me, and I was there for him. All those times I asked you to love my brother a little more, you ignored me. And now he's dead. Why? Because of you.

Right now, you stand infront of me trying to act compassionate, trying to tell me you're upset at what has happened. But when he was alive you couldn't even have those feelings for your son. He died because he decided to run. To run away from all of this neglect. The love he got from other people wasn't the same as the love he should have gotten from you.

When other people tell you you're worthless and pathetic, you don't belive them because you think, 'They don't know me, why should I care?' But when you hear it from your parents everyday, when you hear it from the people that raised you, that have seen you grow, you start to belive that that is what you really are. That is the worst feeling in the world. And he felt that.

So he decided to leave all this. To try and make something out of himself to prove to you guys that he wasn't pathetic, that he wasn't worthless. But it backfired. Now he's dead. Gone. Are you happy?

He won't be around to dissapoint you anymore. I'm suprised you guys aren't fucking dancing right now. You are the pathetic ones. The worthless ones. I hope you rot in hell just like I will." I said coldy.

I stared at my parents as they stared at me, their mouths open, almost as if they where going to say something to me. But they never did. I hope this snapped them into reality. The reality where they finally realized they weren't good parents. They have fooled themselves for years thinking they were. They were obviously blind to the fact that they sucked as parents and human beings.

I turned to walk away, just in time to hear my mother break into tears. "Good," I thought. Maybe now she'd realized how bad she made my brother feel. I should feel bad for making her cry, for making her hurt, but then again, she never felt bad for making my brother hurt.

I felt my eyes sting with tears and I walked into my room. I hated to be in there now. I shared this room with my brother. He used to sleep on the bed right across the room from me. Now as I sit on my bed I can see his.

It hurts to know that he will never sleep there again. That he will never come in late at night and flop down on the bed, making it squeak and waking me up. He would never again complain that there was a spring on the mattress that poked his back. I would never hear him telling me to cover my eyes as he reached under the mattress to pull out his money stash, or hear him laugh at me because he caught me peeking through my fingers.

Tears raced down my cheeks and laughter escaped from my mouth. It was strange what I was feeling. I was sad, but yet I was happy for his death. Not happy as in 'yay he's gone' happy, but happy as in 'he's finally in a better place, He's finally free' happy.

I would miss my brother. That's for certain, but I would be able to go on knowing that he no longer has to put up with my parents. That he no longer has to feel low, and worthless, like if he was a mistake. Right now he's probably somewhere else, laughing, enjoying himself.

Hopefully, he is also looking down on me. I hope he's smiling at me. It would have been nice to be able to thank him for helping me all these years. For being my shoulder to lean on. My guidance to the world. More tears run down my face, but yet I smile. My door squeaks open, it's my father.

"What do you want?" I ask coldly, not tearing my eyes away from my brothers bed.

"We have to go down and identify his body," he said.

"Why? We already know it's him. The tattoos they described, the ID they found on him. Why bother?" I said in a low voice.

I should probably want to see my brothers body one last time. But I don't. I want to remember him like how he was the last time I saw him. He was happy to leave this house, he was smiling, he was....alive. I should have stopped him. If I did that then maybe he'd still be alive. But he would be miserable. But then he wouldn't have been murdered. All the possible scenarios raced through my head.

"We have to, now come on," he said.

I hesitated and got up from my bed. I laced up my shoes and grabbed my brothers hoodie, the one he let me have right before he left. It still smelled of him. It smelled like his favorite candy, the wrappers where even in his pockets. I walked outside and reluctantly got into our car. I tried my best to pretend I was in there alone; that my parents weren't there at all. We finally reached the hospital.

We got out of the car and headed straight for the coroner's office in the back of the hospital. We walked up to the secretary, who told the coroner we arrived. He greeted us and expressed his sorrow at our loss, then proceeded to take us back to the area where they kept the bodies.

They looked like oversized filing cabinets. But the truth was much more depressing. Inside they didn't hold papers, but bodies. And one of those, held my brother. As we made our way to the one that held my brother, we passed a glove container that was tacked to the wall.

It was metal and had a dull shine to it, but it was enough to draw my attention. I stopped following my parents, and gazed into the shiny reflection of the gove container. I stared at the features of my face. The features I shared with my brother: our black hair and our green eyes. We weren't twins, he was older by two years, but we looked so much alike people thought we were.

I finally broke my gaze from the mirror and went to where my parents and the coroner where. He asked us if we where ready, and then opened the door. I could see my brothers feet first and then as the coroner slid out the rest of the gurney, I saw the rest of him. His mid-section was covered with a small blanket-like thing, but the rest of him was naked.

I could see all the tattoos on him that he had gotten because of his fake ID. I could see the black nail polish on his fingers, and the peircing on his lip. He was beautiful. My brother was georgous...

My mother cried as she sobbed out 'yes that's him' and buried her face in my fathers chest, and I silently let tears fall down my face. I had no idea whether my mom was actually crying or putting on a show. Just an hour ago she was calling him a fag and not caring that he was gone. Now, she's crying hestericly. The coroner accompanied my parents out into the hallway to give them a chance to calm down. I asked to stay behind to have some last moments with my brother. The coroner nodded that he understood and left me.

I cried, I cried the hardest I have ever done in my whole life. I threw myself at his cold body, and wept. I stroked his hair, traced over his cuts and bruises and adjusted his busted lip ring. He was killed, all because he tried to help someone. They beat him up, then they shot him when he tried to run.

I heard the coroner coming in. I got up from my brothers body and wiped off my tears. I traced his lips with my fingers and whispered 'Goodbye'. I gave him a quick, light kiss on the lips and smiled. It wasn't an incest thing at all, it was to say goodbye to him. Weird way to say it, but I said it.

The coroner finally came in and told me my parents were waiting to leave. I nodded and started to walk towards the door. I heard the coroner pushing him into the cabinet thing and I turned around. The last thing I saw before leaving was the tag on his foot that had his name. From the doorway I could still read it: Frank Anthony Iero.