The dry, bleak landscape flew past the window as the truck hurtled along the gravel road in an anything-but-smooth manner. My hair scratched my skin every time it whipped me in the face, and I grumbled instinctively for the windows to be closed. The gruff voice of my father was heard in response,
"Ya up?"
As my body stirred from sleep, I became annoyingly aware of the immense pain surging within every part of me above my groin. With every movement made of my limbs to shift into a seated position, my muscles ached and resisted, and I hissed in discomfort. I would have to continue lying spread out along the back seats, even though my back hurt like hell from it. The sound of blood pounding in my ears drowned out my voice as I spoke.
"The alcohol…must've…"
"Eh?"
I watched through heavy eyelids as my father's hand reached up to angle the rearview mirror toward me. My vision must not have been restored to its full potential, because all of his grey hairs were a deep brown. No, I was simply wrong. My returning vision had tricked me. This was my older brother, Garrett.
"Your brother gave you alcohol? Mine? That son of a bitch. Don't listen to a damn thing I say."
The truck picked up speed and hit some sort of bump, causing my entire body to bounce off the seat. The back of my head hit against the door on the way back down, and I let out a groan. My vision swam and blackened from the awful impact, and the sounds of the aged, worn out engine and the blasting radio refused to be properly picked up by my ears. It was as if someone was repeatedly adjusting the volume, up and down, up and down, up and down…
I had no clue what he was talking about, but I figured it must have been because of the issue of me only recently gaining consciousness. I waited for him to inform me of what had happened to me, but he resorted back to silence.
The dust of the gravel road felt as if it were clinging to the inner walls of my lungs, and every breath stung. On top of that, a few strands of my hair flung around and stabbed me in the eyeball. How was Garrett not affected? The only thing I wanted in this moment was for him to shut the damn windows.
"Where's Marie?" My voice barely surpassed the volume of the radio.
Marie was his wife, who he had been married to for four years longer than I had been so with mine. She was a sweet, quiet soul, and she was the gentlest woman that I had ever known. He needed someone like her to smooth out his rough edges.
"Huh?"
"If you would close the windows, you would hear me."
My brother was being uncharacteristically stubborn, and the truck remained welcoming to dust and hot air. Although it irritated me, I couldn't speak on it, because I fell back into unconsciousness.
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I was awoken by unbearable pain in my arm and shoulder, only to realize as I gained awareness of my surroundings that I was being harshly pulled out of the truck. As soon as my feet hit the ground, I collapsed.
"Get up, boy."
I could have sworn it was my father's voice.
"Don't be such a pussy. The wreck didn't do ya that bad."
His tone and insult made me feel worse than it should have. I wasn't sensitive, so I shouldn't have been hurt by it. I resorted to believing that my feelings were the result of the pain and irritation that my body was going through.
Although that was my guess, an unwelcome picture displayed itself within my head. It was almost as if it was the fuzzy memory of someone else's entirely:
My father hit me, and the cries of a child rang out from a corner of the room, while the yells of a young man was heard in defense.
As I looked at my brother, who so closely resembled my father, a tight, twisted hatred wormed its way into my heart. Never had such strong, negative emotions overcome my body as they did now.
It scared me.
"Get inside or I'm lockin' ya out."
Only when I went to stand, to raise myself to my height of six foot two, did I realize that I was already on my feet. My palms quickly began to produce an unhealthy amount of sweat, and my anxiety derailed as my reflection caught my eye in the truck window.
I was just under five feet tall, and my hair was a short, unkempt mess. My face was free from the brutal scar I had been left with from a baseball bat to the face that I received in my early twenties, and what replaced it was a significant amount of freckles that were prominent due to being exposed to excessive sunlight.
I was back in my twelve-year-old body. No, had I ever left it? My face shape was rounder, my eyes larger, but they didn't look like they belonged to a child. The situation quickly dawned on my underdeveloped mind, realizing that every single good thing that had ever happened to me was made up—fictional—in a wishful boy's dreams. I hadn't returned to the past like one of those famous, idolized superheroes. In fact, I hadn't returned to anything at all but a harsh reality.
The "memory" I had just experienced was mine. That father was mine.
And it was because of his neglect that my life ended.
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Putting it that way was a bit strong. I had suffered nerve damage, because the bone in my arm had not healed properly due to rough treatment following the surgery and casting. This rendered it useless in physical activities not included in the daily.
Thanks to the hyper realistic dream that I had experienced, a passion was infused into my heart. I had always played baseball, starting at age six in tee ball, but I had never really been interested in it. The sport just filled up what would be empty spaces in my schedule.
But now—
I didn't care if it had been a dream. I got a girl because of that sport, and I believed I would've gotten one in this life too if I was able to keep playing. Could I play with one arm? I was sure there was a way. I would just have to get my good arm really strong and learn how to catch, throw, and hit only with it. I'd be a legend. With a girl.
The rickety old ceiling fan creaked and whined. It had fallen from the ceiling before, and it landed on my head while playing a video game, so now I was a bit paranoid. It had knocked me out, and John, who was only three, found me and bawled, thinking I was dead.
"Jamie?" I heard his timid voice from my bedroom doorway, drawing me from my thoughts. He had creaked the door open just a crack, enough to see me.
I used my elbows to prop myself up as I laid on my bed, and I cast my eyes in his direction. His appearance always startled me, and I felt guilty for reacting that way. It wasn't that he looked bad—well, he did, but not in an ugly way. He looked starved. I always thought he looked worse every time I saw him, but I tried to convince myself that he was the same.
"Hey, buddy," I beckoned the four-year-old to sit with me. The ratty, scratchy blankets stained with food, drink, blood, and who knows what else were pushed aside as I tried to make the sunken mattress most comfortable for my little brother.
I reached down to grab him as he came closer, my stomach turning as I felt his ribs beneath my hands. Mindfully, he was set down on a bare spot on my mattress, and I ruffled his hair. My fingers briefly snagged in his tangled curls, and my hand stopped to avoid hurting him. I left it there and rubbed his scalp gently.
"What's up?" I questioned him, wanting to know why he was visiting me. It was supposed to be Garrett's turn with him today.
"I was lonely."
I frowned. The eldest of us three wasn't keeping up with his end of the deal.
"Why?"
"Garrett's friend came over. I think he was checking to see if the car crash hurt him."
While it was nice of Owen, he should have been told to leave. It wasn't safe for John to be alone; he needed the watchful eye of at least one of his brothers. Our apartment wasn't regulated; our rent was months past due, and the landlord hadn't shown up since Christmas. There were many safety hazards that had the potential to even kill the preschooler. Dad left his bottles and shit around, and Garrett didn't bother to hide his pot. Our home wasn't empty of mold and cockroaches, either. Who knew what else there was that John could get his hands in.
It was strange. In another life, John was healthy, and Garrett was clean. I saw it. It gave me hope that it would get better for the both of them, that life would be kinder to them. That hope was what made me feel the need to take care of John, to ensure that he made it past five years old. That hope was what made me feel the need to give Garrett chance after chance.
I didn't blame Garrett for my permanently flawed arm. Even though he wasn't sober when we crashed, and he was the reason for the initial injury, I couldn't bring myself to hold a grudge. He was my older brother, and he was my best friend once. He was the one who got me into tee ball, and he was the one who helped me clear the difficult levels of "Super Mario World," which he had bought me for my seventh birthday. I knew he still cared about me, even if he didn't show it much anymore.
"I'm sorry," I leaned back against the headboard after moving over to make room for John, who leaned against my side.
"For what?"
He looked up at me, and I wanted to keep the lively shine in his eyes locked in my memory forever.
"Uh...," I didn't know how to explain it, really. I pitied him, because he was a Jones. He was the youngest member of the family, which meant that he received the least care and attention from our father. In a way, I wished that he wasn't my brother. If he was someone else's, he could be with people who actually cared for him and chose to spend time with him, because they enjoyed it.
"I'm just sorry."
The creaking of the broken ceiling fan and sound of the beads on the chains hitting against each other were the only noises that kept the room from being completely silent. It was that way for a few minutes, and my eyes unfocused from a spot on the wall as I felt John's shaky breathing against my side. I was hyper aware of it, as if I was afraid it would stop.
He abruptly shifted, and he draped his arm over my stomach. His face was hidden in my shirt, but I could hear the smile in his voice as he spoke up,
"Thank you for being my brother. I love you."