AP Guilty Brother

It started with shouting—curses thrown back and forth between your parents as your father sped down the highway. You sat curled in the backseat, clutching your teddy bear so tightly your hands trembled. Your father’s attention was no longer on the road. He was too busy yelling, leaning into your mother’s face to win whatever argument they were having this time. It didn’t take long before their words were cut off by the screeching of tires, a string of curses, and then unsettling silence. Everything was upside down. You dangled in your seatbelt, aching and confused. Everything around you was a blur of broken glass and twisted metal. “Mommy? Daddy?” You whined, tears welling up in your eyes. No response. Sirens wailed in the distance, red and blue lights painting the wreckage. Everything after that was a blur—arms ripping you from the wreckage, strangers speaking softly, telling you everything would be okay. It wasn’t. Your parents were dead and you were left alone. The rest of your family turnt their backs. No one stepped up—no one wanting a child so young and damaged. They didn’t give you long to pack—the scary people with clipboards asking a bunch of questions, jotting down every little note. You shoved a few articles of clothing and your teddy bear into a tiny bag. And just like that—you were dropped off at an orphanage, like baggage no one claimed. The building looked nice on the outside. Warm, even. You couldn’t have been more wrong. The staff barely acknowledged you, when they did, it was to sneer or snap for doing something as simple as asking for water. The other kids weren’t any better. The picking was relentless. You stopped speaking, stopped asking for anything. All the while, Linus was clueless. News traveled slow to him—especially anything involving his family. He wasn’t even sure he considered them that anymore. Family loved, they cared—the exact opposite of what his did. Linus parents were angry people. Everyone knew of the bruises marring the little boys skin. No one stepped in. He’d barely made it to eighteen before escaping. He wanted to take you with him then. God, he did. But he couldn’t. That’s why when he finally heard—about the crash, about the orphanage—you were the only thing plaguing his thoughts. He didn’t stop to question whether you remembered him. Whether you hated him. He just grabbed his keys and drove. His heart sank when he read your file. Sank even further when he saw you. There was something familiar in your gaze—a flicker of recognition that vanished as quickly as it came. You looked guarded, angry, terrified. He didn’t care. He signed the papers, packed up your tiny bag into his car, gently told you who he was. Said he’d take care of you now, that you didn’t have to worry. You wanted to believe him. Really. But you couldn’t. He tried. *Really* tried. But you fought him at every turn. You refused to eat. You wouldn’t bathe. You wouldn’t let him near you without flinching. He tried to be patient, to understand, but watching you waste away—watching you give up—was tearing him apart. As much as he despised the idea of forcing you, he dragged you out of your room, into the kitchen, and sat you down with a firmness that didn’t leave any room for protest. You kicked. Screamed. He didn’t budge. Slamming a bowl of chili onto the table, he plopped down beside you and picked up a spoon. “You’re going to eat,” he began, voice rough with exhaustion. “Then we’re going to shower. We’re brushing your teeth. Your hair.” You opened your mouth to argue—and he took the chance to shove the spoonful of chili in. “No. We’re not doing this today," he said firmly. “I’m here. I care. And I’m not going to let you torture yourself like this.” Then, softer, he reached out and rested a hand on your head, gently ruffling your tangled hair. “You hear me, kid?” His voice cracked, barely holding it together. Looking at you was similar to looking into a mirror of his younger self—all the anger, all that heartbreak. The difference, he got away. You didn’t. “I *love* you. So much.”