Anorex-a-Gogo
Un-Brothers
Shhh, Frankie. It''s just me.
His excuse was always that we weren't actually brothers. Our blood was different. Our biological parents were different.
I didn't think so. We adopted Owen into our family a decade ago. I was six at the time, he was eight. We were never best friends or anything, but we got on well enough. We had the same parents, even if his blood wasn't the same as mine. And as far as I was concerned, he was my brother.
Shhh, Frankie. It's just me.
The first time it happened, I was nine years old. Owen had just turned eleven last week. It was somewhere around two o' clock in the morning. I woke up when I heard my bedroom door open, golden light spilling across the carpet, and then a click as it softly closed again. I had always been a light sleeper.
I sat up in bed and listened hard, trying to make out the shadowed figure making his way to my bed.
"Owen?" I squeaked, my voice shaking as I clutched my Spiderman sheets to my chest.
Owen's face appeared by my bed, his brown hair rumpled from sleep and his features lit up by the moonlight spilling in through my window. "Shhh, Frankie. It's just me," he whispered, climbing up onto my bed.
I waited as he got comfortable in front of me, his knees touching mine through the thin sheets. I remember he put his hand on my thigh. It made me uncomfortable. "What are you doing, O?" I asked, "It's the middle of the night. Did you have a bad dream?"
He laughed at me. "You're funny, Frankie."
I didn't know why. I was tired and confused as to why he was in my room so late with his hand on my thigh and laughing at me. "But what are you doing?"
He climbed on top of me, straddling me with his thighs at my hips. As my eyes grew wide, he placed a hand over my mouth. His teeth were white and shiny as he grinned in the dark. I tried to get away from him, but he was at least thirteen pounds heavier than me, and about four inches taller. He touched beneath my shirt, and then inside my pajama pants. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop him. He made me touch him too.
Before he left, he told me I better not tell Mom and Dad or else he'd beat me up. He knew I wouldn't anyway, they'd never believe me, let alone have time to actually listen. They were both psychiatrists, although they had split years ago, so I didn't see much of Dad.
I remember Owen never stopped smiling.
I was too young to really know what had gone on that night, but as it continued during the years, I realized just how wrong it really was. And that there was no way to really stop it from happening. What I did know was, that night, Owen was no longer my brother. He wasn't my brother.
Shhh, Frankie. It's just me.
His excuse was always that we weren't actually brothers. Our blood was different. Our biological parents were different.
I didn't think so. We adopted Owen into our family a decade ago. I was six at the time, he was eight. We were never best friends or anything, but we got on well enough. We had the same parents, even if his blood wasn't the same as mine. And as far as I was concerned, he was my brother.
Shhh, Frankie. It's just me.
The first time it happened, I was nine years old. Owen had just turned eleven last week. It was somewhere around two o' clock in the morning. I woke up when I heard my bedroom door open, golden light spilling across the carpet, and then a click as it softly closed again. I had always been a light sleeper.
I sat up in bed and listened hard, trying to make out the shadowed figure making his way to my bed.
"Owen?" I squeaked, my voice shaking as I clutched my Spiderman sheets to my chest.
Owen's face appeared by my bed, his brown hair rumpled from sleep and his features lit up by the moonlight spilling in through my window. "Shhh, Frankie. It's just me," he whispered, climbing up onto my bed.
I waited as he got comfortable in front of me, his knees touching mine through the thin sheets. I remember he put his hand on my thigh. It made me uncomfortable. "What are you doing, O?" I asked, "It's the middle of the night. Did you have a bad dream?"
He laughed at me. "You're funny, Frankie."
I didn't know why. I was tired and confused as to why he was in my room so late with his hand on my thigh and laughing at me. "But what are you doing?"
He climbed on top of me, straddling me with his thighs at my hips. As my eyes grew wide, he placed a hand over my mouth. His teeth were white and shiny as he grinned in the dark. I tried to get away from him, but he was at least thirteen pounds heavier than me, and about four inches taller. He touched beneath my shirt, and then inside my pajama pants. I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't stop him. He made me touch him too.
Before he left, he told me I better not tell Mom and Dad or else he'd beat me up. He knew I wouldn't anyway, they'd never believe me, let alone have time to actually listen. They were both psychiatrists, although they had split years ago, so I didn't see much of Dad.
I remember Owen never stopped smiling.
I was too young to really know what had gone on that night, but as it continued during the years, I realized just how wrong it really was. And that there was no way to really stop it from happening. What I did know was, that night, Owen was no longer my brother. He wasn't my brother.
Shhh, Frankie. It's just me.