HOW TO RUIN YOUR LIFE (LGBTQ+)

2

When I was a child, my father killed my older brother, Micah.

    Right in front of us. My younger siblings, Persia and Joe, and my mother and I watched as my father slammed him against the wall and choked him to death. He was blinded by his anger. And the funny thing is, he was mad because Micah had slammed his bedroom door after my father grounded him.

    Micah died...because he slammed the door.

    After my father's vision cleared, he looked down, staring at his dead son, limp and lifeless on the ground. Then, he turned away with a grim look on his face, and ordered my mother to help him.

    She had been sitting stiffly on the couch as my brother lost consciousness, a neutral expression on her face. That's how she always was when my father abused my siblings and I. All she did was stand up and help my father carry Micah's body through the back door and into our yard, as my siblings and I stared on in shock and terror.

    I remember Persia's crying. She was only eight. And I remember Joe's blank staring. He was six. And there I was, standing in front of them at the ripe age of eleven. Confused and angry.

    Why did my brother have to suffer like that? He was only a year older than me. We were best friends. He was my ONLY friend. And I watched as the life was choked out of him.

    I told my little siblings to stay where they were and ran outside, following my mother and father. My father was digging a grave in the field as my mother watched, my brother's body at her feet.

    "You - we can't - we can't do this-" my mother had said, her voice stiff with shock.

    "No! Shut UP, he's dead, can't you see?!" my father had slurred loudly. "We need to bury him ourselves - I don't want the cops involved in my family business."

    My mother just flinched, but didn't move. And I watched. I just stood there and watched, my mouth agape and my eyes wide.

    He was buried there, carelessly dropped in the grave by my father. I looked at my mother, but all she did was stare at the ground as silent tears fell down her face. She was shaking violently, and my father spat on the ground when he finished shoveling the dirt.

    My brother was murdered.

    My brother...was just murdered and dumped in the ground like garbage.

    My father threw the shovel on the ground and stalked past us. I watched him leave until his back was to me, and then I bent down. My hands wrapped around the shovel handle, and the sound of the blade scraping against the overturned rocks was loud.

He turned around, his eyes searching, and then they found me.

    I walked towards him, shovel in hand. Slowly, calmly. He watched me approach, and my mother stayed where she was.

    The air was silent. No one spoke, no one breathed.

    My father reached for the shovel, his hand shaking.

Why was it shaking?

I pulled it away from his reach, and slammed the blade down on his foot. He screamed out a litany of curses, and I swung the shovel up, catching him under the chin. He fell hard on his back, and I lifted the shovel, bringing it down HARD on his stomach.

    I remember the feeling of the rusty old shovel blade slicing into his stomach. The pain in his eyes as they widened and his mouth opened in a scream, but I was fast. I lifted the shovel even higher, and dropped it in his mouth, almost slicing his head in half.