Capítulo 1: Broken pt.1
At moment in time when life is so full of sorrow, she always smiled up at me, hope in her eyes. Oh, I miss her. She always had bruised arms, a crooked nose, black circles under her eyes, and a smile. Jess, three years younger than I, had the bigger build between us. She looked and acted like mother on mother's good days. They had beer brown eyes, blood red hair, and skin as white as the foam from peroxide. I look nothing like Mother and Jess. I have yellow skin and hair and mud brown eyes. I am the outcast and because of this Father liked to hit me, especially when he had too much to drink but before I got hurt too bad my sister would, without fail, jump up and take my beatings. She never had to stand up for me. If she sat in the corner he would ignore her very existence, she stood up for me anyway. Jess was the strongest person alive, she never cried when father hit her. Once her head became so swollen from father's fists she could not see or speak, I worried she could not breath but she managed to survive the night. I could not understand why she protected me, I could not cook, my cleaning left spots, and my homework did not get praised, but she still took my pain, my suffering. I actually use to wish I could stand up for myself, just once.
The day I turned ten Mother forced Father to throw a party for Jess and I. She told people they either bring us a present or junk food, if they did not they could not drink or smoke any of her stuff. A sweet mother, she gave candy to little kids when she had some, she held us when we had nightmares, and she would stop father's abuse if he went too far. That day she handed us both a fork and said "eat to your heart's content!" Mother went to college as an English major, going to be a teacher. Mother never talked about why she dropped out to us but I once heard her tell a friend, "That boy? I do not know who his father is. I dropped out and never had to see any of the possible fathers again." Jess, the smarter of us, told me mother had been hurt several times while in college and I came from that pain. I still don't understand what that means.
While we could, we ate pizza, cake, ice cream and drank soda until our bellies became bloated and our heads swam with sugar rush, a feast on my birthday. Father's friends started drinking by that point; one eyed Jess and I put a defensive arm around her. I couldn't do anything though, not with my body sore from all the food. She could also take care of herself if need be. Mother went inside with the women turning the whole house into a hotbox of pot; we could not enter the house when she did this. "It kills brain cells," mother would say before she went inside.
Father saw we finished eating; we just lay on the ground laughing our energy away. He shouted at us "Get your ass over here you bag-o-shit!" We both went; he often addressed us as one person even when sober, a rare occasion. He handed Jess and I several beer bottles to throw in the dumpster. We gladly ran around the house to the dumpster which set on a concrete slab, I threw all of my bottles in the can and took most of hers, she kept one. She then threw it on the ground in front of us, jumping and giddy from the sugar. The sound of the glass shattering was beautiful and we smiled at each other. Then realization crossed her face and I imagine mine too. What did she just do? What are we going to do? We both fell to our knees to pick up the glass. I picked up one piece at a time, index and thumb, making sure not to cut myself. I hated the sight of blood and cannot take much pain without crying. Jess turned her palms up and laid her hands on the pavement, then started scooping up the glass quickly. Her weak skin broke instantly and blood gushed from where the glass dug into the sides of her hands and from the back of her hands where the pavement skinned her like a cheese grater. She threw the glass in the trash and did it again, I stopped to watch her. How was she so strong? She cried but not from pain, from fear, fear of mother.
Mother, the nicest mother alive, who would never let anyone hurt us when sober, became a different story when high. Where Father used his fists and liked to hit only one child and he really didn't care which one; mother used what she had in her hands and always found a way to hurt us both at the same time. She liked burning Jess with a joint then looking into my eyes; if I did not flinch she would then slap me until Jess cried out. I always wanted to stop her but I couldn't. Jess could stand Father because he was all about physical pain but Mother mentally hurt us.
Jess scooped up the glass desperately; little particles deep in her skin, beer and blood soaking every inch of her small hands. When the glass was off the ground, her hands were so covered in blood, beer, and glass shards we had to tell mother anyway. Maybe, she was not as strong as I thought, but it is too late now.
We sat on the front porch, mother with eyebrow tweezers in one hand, my sister's hands in the other, and a joint in her mouth like a mob boss's cigar. I watched her pull out glass shards one by one and then dump peroxide over Jess's hands. The peroxide foamed instantly and I flinched, Jess didn't. She probably couldn't feel her hands by that point. At first mother took care of Jess, she even flinched with me when Jess's hands foamed up, but then the joint wiggled as she smiled, as the high set in, she dumped the peroxide on Jess's hands until they became burning brown, red, and white gobs. I watched in fear and silence, since I did not give mother the response she wanted she took the tweezers and pressed the sharp ends into Jess's palm. I had an instant rush of bravery and I pushed mother out of the way so she fell on her elbow and hip. She looked at me, unfeeling and hateful. "You ruined my life!" she screeched, she did not touch me but she smacked Jess's hand with the tweezers still in her fingers. Jess cried but did not make a sound. I had enough, in the heat of the moment I picked up a stick with a pointed end. I went to stab mother, I do not know if I would have done it but before I could find out father grabbed the stick from me and back handed me hard enough I fell into the road, in some ways I am glad he did. I love mother and would hate to have hurt her.
Jess looked at her hands, new blood forming around the new puncture and more foam with the blood. I looked at her, she did not stand up for me, she just sat there, and I was on my own. Time to prove I could take care of myself!
I went to stand to run but Father picked me up by my hair, digging his nails into my forehead, and heaved me into our old car. I felt like a caged animal and started fighting and kicking until my butt hit the seat and he closed the door. We rode quietly, me with my head down and my hands in my lap, he drove with his eyes on the road not looking at me, not even once. He dropped me off at the police station and told me, "Tell the cops what you done," still not looking, then he drove away. I flipped him off hopping he would see and come back to hit me so I could stand up for myself again. I felt brave and powerful. I am able to say I stood up for myself without Jess's help. Then again, in a way by her not doing anything to stop it she gave me my chance to find myself.
REFLEXIONES DE LOS CREADORES 
Poetsoul61521
Poetsoul61521 Broken does need a trigger warning for blood and abuse. This story was one I wrote while in college. We had to take a childhood memory and write a fictional story about it. My memory was of course the beer bottle scene. I did what the little girl did. I tried to use a lot of symbolism, a term that might help with some of the information is "yellow-bellied" meaning cowardly. The boy's skin isn't really yellow.
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