To tell, or not to tell.

The bus journey home is, well, a bus journey. It doesn't have much effect on my life, it is just a necessity. I get off the bus and walk back to my house. It's a five minute walk and I quite like it. This sounds cheesy, but it gives you time to think. Despite living in a grey town in a crud estate, well, right next to one, if you look up at the sky you can drown all that out. The sky today is blue with streaks of pink cloud dyed by the setting sun. Although there is sun, it is still very cold so I pull up my coat to cover my chin and shiver. The clouds look like fluffy cotton candy and they make me sort of happy. Cliché as it might be, the bird just happen to be singing. It makes me really appreciate what I've got. If my thoughts were a picture right now they'd be the obvious happy colours; yellows, golds, pinks, purples, greens and certain blues. But if you were to turn it over it would probably be a watery grey mismatch. I vow to myself that life is to good to be so sad and stupid all the time and for what I imagine to be the hundredth time, I convince myself I'm fine and that I can fix everything. And I will. Totally. Just you watch.
I get to my front door, unprepared as usual, and fumble around in my bag for a while trying to find them. My clumsy searching fingers finally pass across them and latch on to them, dragging them out, Boxing Glove keyring first. As it turns out, mu actual keys have gotten caught on something and the flimsy piece of malleable metal holding them on has uncurled and scattered them in my bag. I really should be more careful. Placing my bag anything but gently onto the ground I kneel down and rummage through it looking with ardent desperation for my key because if I don't find it, I'll probably be out here for a while. Luckily for me I do find it and open the door, my glasses fogging up with the sudden change in temperature.

"See you finally got in then." My brother's voice comes from the couch where he is currently changing the channel from what I imagine was some form of "Adult TV".

"You knew I was out there and you didn't think to open the door?" I question, raising one eyebrow in disbelief at his utter selfishness.

"Nah, couldn't be bothered really." He tosses a glance in my direction and smirks, "I was busy."

I grumble and start to make my way upstairs, "Yeah, busy wanking you bastard."

James' eyes go from a liquid blue to a steely colour. James is my step brother but we share an eye colour and a childhood so it's almost as if we are actually siblings. In fact, unless we tell them otherwise, people often do mistake us for actually being blood related. James has black hair though, where as mines is a light brown colour. He thinks he's God's gift to women, what with his good looks and great prospects. Cough cough. To be fair, he does have a sic pack and an okay looking face but he dresses, lives, eats, showers as remotely as a slob. He also doesn't change his socks very often. Or his underwear for that matter. I know this because, unlike him, I do my fair share of chores. Well, that's a lie. Not the chores bit. His hygiene has improved since he got interested in girls, I'll give him that.

"Did you just call me a bastard?" It's funny how quickly his mood can change. It's almost like we are related.

I lift my chin haughtily. "Why yes, yes, I believe I did."

He narrows his eyes. "That's not very nice now is it?"

I blink as I look away back to the stairs in front of me. I know I'm sort of egging him on, but he deserves it. " Just because it's not nice doesn't mean it's not true."

I'm ready for the jump. He springs off the couch as I spring up the stairs and into my room, slamming the door behind me. He thumps against it about two seconds later. "Let me in you cow!"

"No! It's my room and you're not allowed in." I press my back against the door, my shelter. My weak protection for a short space of time.

I can hear him breathing deeply outside. "Look, let me in and I won't hurt you."

When I was younger and I trusted him more, I would have believed that, only to be sadly mistaken. As I got older I became more weary.

"I don't believe you!" I knew what was coming next.

"Look, if you don't open the door and let me in now I'll hurt you when you do." This is what I would give in to when I was a bit older. "But if you let me in now, I'll not do anything. I just want to talk."
Before, and I'm ashamed to say, quite recently before, I would have simply enquired if he promised and when he said yes let him in with a timid smile on my face as I got ready to apologize. And then he'd break his promise and I'd swallow my apology on the spot and wait until I was crying in a heap on the floor before finally uttering it out. I always told myself that it didn't count. It didn't count. Now I was too old for that. So yes, I'm too old for him to manipulate me into letting him in, but I'm also small and weak meaning he could now force his way in. He had bulked up over the years, became more manly and strong. I became less tom boy-ish and more feminine. I lost some of my strength. With said brute strength, James heaves his way in and I stumble before regaining my balance and standing arms folded across my chest.
"Get out." I breath. I know I'm fighting a loosing battle.

"Make me." He seethes, getting closer.

I back away in response and feel my bed against the back of my knees. I may have lost that courage and strength but by God if I have not grown resistant over the years then my hair isn't brown. He won't get his apology. He won't seek it any more. He might pretend that he does but he doesn't care for "sorry". He goes for tears now. Bastard.
He pushes me over onto my bed and straddles me. Not in some weird perverted way, just so that it's harder for me to fight back. My hands are forced under his knees and I squirm to try and get free. I scratch like hell and bite like an animal. I use any weapons I can in my defence.

"Say sorry."

I wriggle some more and narrow my eyes.

"Say it or I will punch you!" He raises his fist and I flinch. Without one hand, though, he gives me a slight upper hand and I get one hand free and scratch him across the face. Quicker than lightening he's back down on me securing my hands behind my back.

"You bitch!" He spits in my face and I wish I could wipe it off. It's not even the degradation the action holds that makes me want to spit on his face in return, it's how gross it is. I scream and I swear I can't even recognize my own voice.

"Shut up! You'll annoy the fucking neighbours!" He glares at me with what I assume is loathing. I won't cry. I won't cry.

He hurls insults at me like throwing knives but none of them hurt any more. And then he says it. The thing I don't want to hear. I glance away and try to hold back the tears but they rush against my restraints like tsunami wave, breaking all my safety barriers. I want to hurt him so much right now. He demands an apology, even though he's already gotten what he wants. I tell him to shove off and he slaps me across the face before getting up and leaving. It's hard to put the image of him now with the image of him before when we were younger and I had to listen to my parents argue and shout and sometimes other things that are similar to what just happened to me, when he would hug me and cover my ears because his Mummy and Daddy had done the same and tell me it would be alright. It's hard to make this him coincide with the one that would run into walls pretending to hurt himself to make me laugh when the girls in school made me cry when I was younger. I love that old him like one love's a brother because he is my brother, if not by blood then by shared experiences. So why do I hate him now? I don't tell on him for this. I wonder if it's abuse but I'm sure normal families, normal brothers and sisters, fight like this. He doesn't leave bruises anyway so it can't be that bad. We used to play fight, it was fun. Maybe this is the same thing? He does always smile when he hits me.

A quote I once heard comes to mind. I hurt myself so you can't. Just because you hurt yourself doesn't mean someone can't hurt you too.