My Brother Finds Out

  
The news hit my old high school before I could tell my brother, and he found out from friends. That wasn't how I wanted it to happen. I wanted to protect him and shelter him from the new as I was sure it would shock him. I didn't have enough faith in him. He handled it beautifully.

The Scratched Cornea

 
I scratched my cornea dancing one night when my flailing arms ended up poking me in the eye. It was painful and sent me home immediately. It was the night before my brother's confirmation.

I awoke the next morning barely able to keep my eye open, tears dripping rhythmically down my cheek. It was going to be a long day. I thought about not going, but wanted to be there for my brother. I got dressed, and my parents picked my up.

"What happened," asked my mom.

I told her.

Suddenly, my accident was purposeful and meant to ruin the day. I argued back.

"Uh...no it'd not. It was a total accident!"

"You're going out wasn't an accident."

I didn't disagree.

We arrived at the Cathedral in St. Paul. Everyone piled in to the church. My family took a seat near the front. I didn't want to be that close. Still my eye kept dripping and madly blinking.

"Are you okay?"

"What happened?"

"That looks like it hurts."

"I'm fine...It was an accident...Yes, it hurts, but I'll be fine."

Mass started. The stand, sit, kneel, stand again commenced. I sat the entire time. My parents grew more agitated with my actions. They were deliberate.

Then came Communion. The entire row rose and proceeded to empty into the aisle. I still sat there. A tap and nudge ont he shoulder from my mom or dad, I can't recall, urged me to stand. A shake of my head responded.

"Come on. It's Communion."

"I'm not going. I'm not Catholic anymore."

"Don't ruin this for your brother."

"It would be disrespectful for me to take Communion."

They looked at me disdainfully and got in line. I was the only person still sitting in the first seven rows.

Gossip ensued.

I scratched my cornea again in a similar fashion many years later. The next day, however, all I did was stay home. I probably should have done that the first time.

The Fight with the Knife

 
We fought a lot. Sometimes it was the friendly fight of brothers. Others it was the competitive and volatile fight of siblings. We didn't understand each other, each on thought the other got more attention, had more friends, or some other shit like that. We didn't realize how similar we really were. Often, our fights were epic.

One afternoon, we had a particularly vitriolic fight. It started with simple teasing back and forth that morphed into me chasing him around the house with a knife screaming, "I hate you! I fucking hate you! Everyone hates you!!!"

He avoided my slashes laughing and crying nervously. I pursued certain I would make contact; unsure what would happen next. Our two other younger siblings watching everything unfold. I was supposed to be in charge. Obviously, I wasn't.

When I ran out of steam chasing him with the kitchen knife, I ran to our room and started throwing his clothes out of this dresser.

"You're not wanted anymore. No one loves you. Mom and dad don't want you here," and I ran to the laundry room, grabbed a suitcase, and started packing his clothes inside. Once packed, I shoved it at him, pushed him out our back door, locked the door, and from the screen window screeched, "Go! Leave! Don't come back. It'll be better without you around."

I will never forget the tears of anger and sadness that streaked his red face. "Fine," he yelled from the driveway, "You want me gone? I'm gone! Tell mom and dad goodbye."

He walked down the driveway and into the street. Our two other siblings cried and pleaded with me to get him to come back. Something snapped inside me, and I realized I was making him feel the way I felt. I was ashamed. I was supposed to protect him. I was the older one, and I should have know better.

"Wait!" I yeled as I unlocked and opened the back door. "Come back. I didn't mean it. You can't leave!"

He kept walking. I followed. Tears streamed down his face; his shoulders convulsed. I caught up to him.

"I'm sorry," and I threw my arms around him. "Come home."

Eventually, he came back and we put everything away before mom and dad got home. All four of us made a pact to never tell our parents about the incident.

The events of that day changed all of us. I know we had more fights and arguments after that, but nothing that escalated to knives or packed bags. I think we all realized that we all were alone in our own way.

While I don't talk to my siblings often, I know they love and accept me. And I know that that feeling of being alone or an outside connects all four of us.