I remember my brother being told to hold me by my arms.
I was in punishment for playing with fire.
No justification.
But still, I am only a boy.
“Hold him.”
My older brother, as if a machine or puppet of some kind, willingly obeys.
My heart races, and I am smiling inside.
I know in someway in the future I will make it out of this hell.
I know I am a child, but it is not like I will die here. He doesn’t have the balls to kill me.
So I will just take this pain; my rationality kicks in.
Okay, brace myself.
Either a voice from God, or myself says so…
I do so.
“Slam.”
To my face.
Steel toe boots.
“Slam.”
Man, this hurts.
To my chest, and to my gut.
“Slam.”
I am almost unconscious, and my face feels inconceivable.
I am locked in the room.
I look in the mirror.
My face doesn’t look too bad I say.
In fact, I feel like no damage was done, and it just wasn’t so bad after all, my afterthought.
There is redness in the corner of my eye.
I take a razor and give myself a shape up.
My dire need for self love, and self care I presume – because I was told I am ugly and stupid.
Brainwashed.
These very words was thrown around so very often.
“Rock him to sleep.”
“Brainwash.”
Memories arise, and I write them here.
Cleansing my soul and mind, to feel happiness and peace, once and for all.
I forgive you Yusef.
I forgive you Shatina.
