A Picture For My Brother

It is impossible to truly hate someone without loving them first, to see the person who you care so much for, do things that both infuriate and disappoint you. This kind of emotion shocks you, it pounces on its prey when most vulnerable and consumes it completely. The hate wraps its long arms around you and squeezes tight, you can struggle, but it only gets tighter, like one of those Chinese finger traps that cause you to panic and franticly try to rip apart your fingers. It is not until you settle down and look at the situation logically that you can be free from either trap. My demon's arms were slung around my shoulders, whispering in my ear ways I could harm my brother, make him hurt as much as I did. It was only fair, that he go through as much pain as he put me through, at least that's what I thought. The world was making me hard, I left my sweetness out on the street with a sign begging a stranger to take it home, I had no room for sweetness with all the bitterness that I had adopted. Like a street sweeper, I had collected the unwanted and discarded anger and pain from those around me and made it my own. Coloured and trimmed, it fit in my collage of evidence I intended to shove in my brother's face, a picture of blame.
We were in a contest to see who could care less, and he was winning.
His addiction had taken over, replacing my brother with one of the monsters who had hidden under my bed years before. His downward spiral became a ride we all took, everyone who cared for him. We were thrown in the carriages of the ride without warning and never told what would happen if we stuck our hands outside. I tried to look ahead once, I gingerly edged my head further and further outside, but before I could catch glimpse of what the future might bring, he spat in my eyes and ordered me back inside. I was left to look back at the destruction he had caused instead.
The drug talk I was subjected to when I was 12, where the police came to school and tried to educate us on a world I already knew about. In my head I cursed at them, wondering where they had been when my brother had started using, and why he was never given this talk. I convinced myself that if he had of known then we wouldn't be in this situation. I created a mental timeline in my head and convinced myself that he must have missed this talk, that we would have been in the process of moving. I fabricated a valid excuse for my brother, one that he would never use.
Ahead of that I could see the summer the police came to visit me again. They appeared at the door, demanding to search my brother's room. They flashed me their badges, like they did in the movies and for a moment I was so caught up by the fact I could have been in a film that I forgot that they were there because my brother was in trouble. I tried to keep my younger sisters as innocent as possible by banishing them to their rooms, but there is only so much a closed door can conceal. They needed an adult present so made a frantic phone call to my mother. The woman tried to make small talk with me, asking me how my holidays had been, whether we had been away or not, if I had been swimming in the pool much. I glared at her, while another man paced around our living room, inspecting the pictures that documented my family's life.
A year later we returned home to find my brother under the influence of substances I could only guess the names of. It was late, the music was blaring and his friends were smoking in the house. My mum hated that. My father and brother argued, slinging insults at each other. I started screaming when my father hit him. Before I knew it there was broken glass covering the floor and they were too busy wrestling to notice the blood seeping from their feet. I screamed louder, but they didn't stop. I took refuge in my sister's room and locked the door behind me. I hugged them tight, one under each arm and we cried until we heard the door slam, the engine roar and my brother leave. I learnt at the age of fourteen what it is like to not feel safe in your own home.
I watched from my carriage on the ride as he unknowingly taught me to fight. How to penetrate my opponents mind and find their weakness. He was a master at finding the perfect way to slice through a person's firewall. He had always wanted to study law - he argued with everything and everyone, and usually won - but once his criminal record developed, this dream became just another to add to the pile of failed ideas that gathered in our living room corner.
My social life arrived at the front door, but my incredible fear of turning into my brother kept me from touching alcohol or any other substance. I turned inwards and got lost in poems that would never be recited and songs that only the voices in my head would sing. I spent weekends filling my nostrils with the sweet smell of old books and found myself declining offers to attend parties so that I could learn another Eminem song off by heart and perform if for bottles of shampoo. Despite my efforts I was unwillingly becoming more like him. I snapped at my parents and treated my sisters as badly as my brother had treated me. I resented him, I hated him.
My collage was nearly finished by this time, the streets had served me well, and people gave generously when they saw what I was seeking. Arms full, I stumbled off the ride with a stolen confidence. With anticipation and my argument sitting on the tip of my tongue ready to use everything he taught me against him, I looked around to find my brother, intent on finally revealing my lurid masterpiece, but he was nowhere to be seen. I turned to the operator of the ride, who was no longer my brother. I looked away for a moment, and when my gaze returned, I was met with silence. I was alone, with only my lives work to keep me company; misplaced hate glued and stapled together.

My autobiography for my final English piece.