55. Fifty Two
Fifty Two
Creed
All my life, my older brother has been my hero. Even as a child, he had this air of discipline I couldn’t replicate, no matter how hard I tried. And I did try. Our father had the same powerful presence, and he expected his boys to follow in his footsteps.
That was where his disdain for me began. The inability to communicate only added to frustration he already felt, and once he realized that his genetics failed to pass down the Bastien grit, I became his greatest failure.
The physical violence didn’t start until I hit double digits.
One day, like a tether frayed, our father gave in to the weak spot that had been wearing away for a decade.
He’d invited a group of men over; the same men that came every third Saturday of the month.
Like clockwork, they’d arrive with guns and duffel bags.
Dad would banish us to our rooms until he came for us hours later, stinking of tobacco, liquor, and too-sweet cologne.
All it took was one lapse of judgment—one burst of adolescent curiosity that had me sneaking from the room. Cecil ordered me not to, told me I was asking for trouble, but I insisted I had to use the restroom. It was a lie, of course, and I tiptoed straight toward that kitchen.
It didn’t take a fully developed frontal lobe to make out what the exchange was. Drugs of various colors and consistencies were splayed out where I would eat stale cheerios. It scared me enough to backpedal, but I wasn’t able to hear the creaking of the floorboards, the clunking of boots.
My father dragged me by the collar of my shirt back to mine and Cecil’s shared bedroom. His mouth moved furiously—too furiously for me to make out any words—and spittle clung to my cheeks. In true coward fashion, I stood stock-still, offering only wide eyes and parted lips.
And then, so quickly I couldn’t flinch, I flew backwards and an agonizing roar filled my head. I didn’t realize what happened until my father left the room and Cecil crouched in front of me.
Tears streamed down his face even as he scolded me.
“I told you not to go! I told you!”
Now, eleven years later, my brother is every bit the soldier I always knew he was. And still, he chooses to protect me.
“I want to help,” I insist, rising to my feet. Eden reaches for my hand, but I brush her off.
Cecil adjusts the holster on his hip, sliding a pistol into the sleeve.
“You are. Defend the camp. Once we return, we’ll all head to the Sanctuary together.”
My brother has taken it upon himself to instruct a handful of us to stay back. Those he’s enlisted to carry out the counter attack at the Orphanage stand idly by, shifting guns on their shoulders and watching our dispute.
“It’s not fair,” I insist.
Eden stands beside me. “We’ll be back soon,” she says, casting me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
Cecil glances behind his shoulder before stepping closer to the two of us, hiding his signs from prying eyes.
“You’re staying, too.”
Eden blanches. “I have to go.”
Cecil gives one firm shake of his head, offering little room for negotiation.
“There’s plenty of us for the raid. Once we have the upper hand, we’ll return for the rest of you.”
He inclines his head to someone behind us, and we both turn to find Veda approaching.
Narrowing my eyes, I turn back to my brother and grit my teeth. “I can help. I’m stronger now.”
Cecil’s eye twitches. His gaze dips to my mouth for only a second. I catch it all the same.
“I won’t risk it.”
I raise my hands to argue, but Cecil steps forward and grips me by shoulders. His gaze is intense as he leans in. His lips move, and I follow the shapes to distinguish his words.
“Me and you,” he says.
My chest gives a familiar ache, and I’m transported back to that night all those years ago.
After he had gathered me from the floor, Cecil meticulously cleaned my busted lip with what was left in an old water bottle and a strip of tattered t-shirt.
It always stunned me that throughout the whole incident, it was my brother that couldn’t stop weeping.
I never shed a tear. Not then, nor any of the other times my father struck me.
“Me and you,” he had told me. “We’ll always protect each other. No matter what. Me and you.”
I’ve lost the fight. When I nod, Cecil’s shoulders lower as he visibly relaxes. He begins to step back, but hesitates. One palm closes around the back of my head, and in one swift motion, he yanks me forward. In a rare display of affection, Cecil presses his lips to my forehead.
As soon as there’s contact, it’s gone again. It’s so unlike him, that the doubt I’ve been suppressing wriggles free. His confidence is waning. He’s not sure he’ll make it back.
Cecil may not be gentle, or affectionate, but I’m as sure now as I was that night on our bedroom floor.
My brother loves me, and he would give his life for mine.
I can only hope it doesn’t come to that.