Chapter 16
Frank
Title: Don’t let family disappoint ya
Date: Most of my damn life
I had a brother once. Name was Willy. And he was a damn pain in my ass from the day he was born. He was fourteen months younger and followed me around like a wounded dog.
I was fourteen when our mom nicked off. Didn’t leave a note. Didn’t leave nothin. Just vanished like mornin fog, like your own mother did. Didn’t see me whinin about it, though, not like you lot did.
When Mom pissed off, Dad and us kids had to keep Koolaroo runnin. Dad weren’t no father type. He thought a whippin fixed anything.
Cows got out of the paddock…. Whip.
Broken tools…. Ass smacked ’til it was blue.
Smart mouth…. Smack in the teeth.
Dad taught us to hit first, ask questions later. Guess that stuck.
But while I was bustin my guts workin on the farm, Willy was always crying about somethin. Too hot. Too hungry. Too fuckin tired. I didn’t have time for that shit.
Told him to toughen up. Told him to stop hangin off me like a tick.
He didn’t. Like I said, pain in my bloody ass.
But one summer, can’t even remember when, he was bitchin about how hot it was. And it was damn hot, the kind of heat that made your eyeballs burn. No point whinin ’bout it though. I told Willy to cut it out. He didn’t.
So I locked him in the cold meat shed overnight.
Didn’t figure he’d freak out like he did.
Didn’t figure he’d start shakin the next day, like he’d been cursed.
Willy never came back right after that. He started hearin voices and talkin to his self. Spent more and more days starin at the dirt like it had answers.
I never told no one what I did to him. Willy didn’t either. Not even when the hospital visits started.
And the pills.
And the bills.
All them white-coat bastards said he had some “neurological condition.” Said he needed constant care. I said he needed a kick up the ass and to give us a hand on the farm.
But when Dad died in that mine shaft, I took over payin for his treatments. Never told nobody. Didn’t see the point in broadcastin that my brother was broken.
Willy spent half his life hooked up to machines, lookin like one of them science experiments on the telly. Tubes up his nose, cords hangin off him like a stupid puppet. That aint a life.
Every time I visited, he’d grab my hand and beg, “You’ll come back, won’t you, Frank?”
And I’d lie. “Sure, Willy.”
But I rarely did.
Couldn’t stand the smell of that place. Bleach and piss and somethin that don’t smell right.
Back in ’94, I bought Willy a little place in town. Figured maybe havin a home of his own would make him normal again.
Didn’t work. Just made him lonelier.
Every week he’d call, beggin me to come visit. Said the walls were whisperin to him.
I told him to grow up.
One day, the neighbor went to investigate a stink and found Willy dead. Willy had overdosed on the damn pills that were meant to save him. They called it accidental. I call it mercy.
Maybe that was the smartest thing he ever did.
He’s not buried in the family plot. Didn’t see the point. He hated Koolaroo.
I still own that house he died in, though.
That’s where I’m sittin now, writin all this shit down.
And fuck me if the damn walls don’t whisper, just like he said. But I’m not stupid enough to fall into that bullshit. It’s just the damn wind, cuttin through the cracks.
Anyways, guess the secret’s out now. I had a brother.
But sometimes, ya family is the biggest disappointment of all. You either sort that shit out, or you bury it deep and pretend it never happened.
You Branson kids had best figure that out before your bullshit ruins the lot of you.
Frank Branson