X - Okey

Okey

The following is the story of my brother. I tell you this not to
justify myself or feel better in any way, but to tell you, whoever you
are, to celebrate life. Appreciate life. In any way it comes.

My brother was born one year after me. My mother took the same time to
deliver us both, both in the same hospital. The same doctor lifted us
both into the world. But this is where our similarities ended. At some
point in his first hours, my brother lost oxygen to his brain for a few
moments. I'm not sure whether nurses had to revive him or he just
recovered himself, but those moments would decide how his life would
be, and change my family forever.

On my fourth birthday, my parents had become aware of a difference
between us. Although my brother was a happy child, always smiling and
laughing, he did not speak. As I was asking questions about everything,
he was happy to play with his wooden blocks, building towers bigger
than himself. Then smashing them down. My mother took him to speech
therapy, reluctantly, refusing to admit something may be wrong with her
boy. Then she took him to psychologists.

I learned that I was smarter than him, and I used it against him as a
child. I would tease him until his brain could no longer cope with the
torment, if he couldn't figure out something. He'd resort to physical
confrontation quickly, but being quicker and more coordinated, I
normally won those too. My mother told me once that he looked up to me.
That he'd mimic things I'd done. When I'd comb my hair ready for
school. He'd watch out the corner of his eye, I didn't notice, then
after I'd left the bathroom, he'd try to emulate what he saw,
exactly.

It was only when we were in our teen years that I'd given my brother
respect. Or it may have been sympathy. How could I not feel sorry for
him, a thirteen year old boy who still kissed himself better whenever
he was injured, because that's what Mum used to do. I knew this was not
a medical procedure. He didn't understand.

I'd gotten used to his look, the look he gave when his mind couldn't
figure out what I meant. I'd get angry at him for something and he'd
just smile expectantly, then, in his eyes, you'd see it register. His
stare would move its focus from you, disappointed, and he'd screw up
his forehead, trying to figure out what he'd done wrong. He'd nod and
bring his eyes to meet me again.
'Okey.' He'd say, in some strange speech impediment accent, like an
American accent that he'd caught off television, gone wrong. And he'd
pretend to understand. Sometimes he'd say sorry too, even though he
never knew what for.

At high school, my brother had been kept back a year, and I knew there
was going to be trouble when he got there. I teased him at home, so it
would make sense that other immature young boys would tease him too. It
was my responsibility to make sure my brother was safe. He was teased
more than I've ever known before, and having to take 'special' classes
made it no better. What's more, he was big, and an immediate target to
be taken down by bullies. Many times I fought for him. Many times I
lost. Many times, he had no idea why someone wanted to fight him, and
no idea what he'd done wrong. That look again.
'Okey.'

To blame my later life on anything is probably just searching for
excuses. Maybe if my parents had encouraged me as much as they did my
brother. Maybe, had my achievements been given as much respect in the
home as my brothers', I would have felt good about myself and gone on
to a great career. But as the world spun round, I slowly became a
criminal. A car thief at first. Some nights my brother would come with
me, my parents made me take him. I'd use him to guard me, tell me if
anyone was coming. Three times I told police it was him, not me who
stole the car. He was never going to get a job, what difference did it
make if he had a criminal record? He'd unwillingly, unknowingly, take
the rap. Later, I'd explain to him that he didn't really get in
trouble. And he'd believe me.

When I got paid, I'd give a small portion to him. Pocket money. It was
nothing, but enough to buy him a new video game or CD's or whatever
else he wasted it on. Made him happy. I'd stepped up to burglaries.
This made stealing cars easier, as I could take the car keys. I'd study
my targets for two or three weeks, be working about five houses, then
I'd take everything, close the door behind me and drive out in the car
they'd left for me. You'd be surprised how easy.

If my brother had to come, I'd make him stand guard by the door. He'd
find something small to play with, kid's toy or stress relieving thing,
and that would keep him occupied. He'd never ask questions of me and
he'd flinch when I touched him or raised an arm near him. And that hurt
me more than anything.

On the last day I saw my brother, he was standing guard at a front
door, pushing something that was hanging from the roof back and forth.
I told him to check the bedroom down the hall and his feet banged along
the wooden floor, studying everything carefully. A car drove in,
crunched the stones on the driveway. Then another car behind it. Men in
suits got out and rushed to the front and back doors. They knew we were
inside. I ran down to my brother and yelled in the bedroom where he was
holding a photo, touching the glass over the families faces. I had to
escape, hearing the back door open and hit against a wall, and I opened
a bathroom window, jumped and felt my body echo the impact of the
ground through me. There was yelling and feet slamming on the floor
inside.

And when I looked up, my blood speeding through me, my brother was
there, behind the window, tapping and looking worried towards me. I
touched the glass near his face, the heat from my finger leaving a fog.
I saw it register in his eyes, his stare moved away for a moment, his
forehead bunched up. He nodded, stopped tapping. I put a finger to my
lips to tell him to be quiet. Sorry, he said to me. And men crowded the
room behind him. And I ran.

I searched police stations, but my brother had not been arrested that
day. I do not know who those men were, but they were not police, and my
brother was most probably executed. Maybe tortured. I could never tell
my parents where he'd gone. They still put up missing posters. Dad
still searches the streets until stars disappear into day. My mother
cries onto a photo and asks the ceiling, why?

This is why I'm here now, whoever you are. This is why. If possible
could you tell my parents for me. Tell them it wasn't his fault. Or
even tell them a better story and let them rest. I have no where else
to look for him. Maybe I can find him again now.

My apologies.

The coloured lights pulsed onto the water below, washing away. An older
officer, his thin lips hidden by his moustache, slowly folds the note
back into its square and slid it back into the dead man's pocket. The
body swings gently, rope creaking, hanging from the bottom of the
bridge. A car drives by overhead, its headlights lighting the dead
man's eyes. For a moment, it looks like the lifeless eyes twitch,
flinch in the bright. The rope creaks again.
'Jesus.' The younger officer says. It is his first night on the
job.