you didn’t trust

TRIGGER WARNING: THIS STORY CONTAINS VICTIM BLAMING, BOTH FROM OTHERS AND INTERNALLY, SIBLING INCESTUOUS RAPE AND DISSOCIATION AS A COPING MECHANISM.

You didn't trust anyone. Or maybe you just told yourself that, a comforting lie while in reality you held onto that fragile pathetic little thing called hope. Hope that this time, some boundaries might remain intact. This time, he would just stop at whispering, at threats, at wanting without actually taking but you should have known words become actions eventually.

You shouldn't have trusted that he was just teasing, shouldn't have accepted Mom's scoff of "boys'll be boys; besides, your skirt was pretty short. He had a point, your brother. He was just looking out for his baby sister." You knew somewhere in your gut that looking out for you shouldn't mean raking his eyes across your body like he was trying to see through your clothes. But he was not doing anything, just saying shit about how attractive you were, "it's, like, a compliment, don't be weird," and maybe you made things weird.

You should have known not to sit next to him in the backseat. You should have known not to trust that he was just undoing your seatbelt, not when his hands stayed on your groin far longer than they would need to for that, not when the seatbelt was replaced with his belt cutting into your stomach, him straddling you. You didn't trust anyone, especially not your brother, so the fact that his tongue was entering your mouth wasn't a betrayal. Someone can't be betrayed if they never trusted to begin with, right?

He laughed, told Mom you were practicing for when you got a real boyfriend. Mom said you were cute together, and left him on top of you. You hadn’t said a word, so his story became the truth. At least you had an escape hatch: get a boyfriend and he’ll stop. That was a cold comfort when his hands breached the barrier of clothes; you had trusted. You thought that maybe you were only hurt because you had trusted he wouldn't go there.

You didn't trust anyone, which made getting a boyfriend difficult. The only boy who seemed to be attracted to you was your brother. You didn't know how to flirt, how to make it seem like you wanted a man when you didn't, you just wanted your brother to stop. He wouldn't, and your parents treated what was happening as him helping you until you... until... you didn't know what they thought was waiting for you, if they cared if he ever stopped.

Sometimes what was worse was when he was out of the house, at a soccer game with your parents, and you were home alone. You had freedom then but all you could think about was what happened even though you didn't want to be thinking about it when it wasn't happening because you wanted to conserve that fear for when he touched you again.

You showered when you were alone, door locked, knowing he couldn’t accidentally-on-purpose interrupt you. He hadn't done that but you feared he might. After all, if he was willing to touch underneath your clothes, clearly he'd have easier access without clothes altogether. And thinking that makes you shiver despite the water being as hot as it will go, and you stand under it as it burns you. You're choosing the pain of a burning shower. You're letting the hot water touch you. You feel soothed, as though somehow just the act of a form of controllable suffering makes the other uncertainties less pronounced.

You wondered if you've gone insane, reading a book about space travel and wondering if you signed up to be studied in isolation, if maybe you would stop feeling his hands, his mouth, you shut your book because you don't want to taint it with the memory that yet again returned. The memory of what your brother insists is meaningless. He's teasing you. You're practicing for real relationships, but you're afraid for any girl who might enter a real relationship with him.

He went on a date one night, and returned home when you were in the shower, and all your anxieties had been right because he burst in. Your parents were watching TV in their bedroom on the other side of the house. They wouldn't hear shit, but you shouted "Get out! What the hell -" your words were quashed under his growl of rage, his clothes coming off.

"You girls are all the fucking same! Just a bunch of teases and you're not going anywhere, you bitch!" You had been shrinking towards the wall, and turn turned the knob so the water stopped running.

"I'm sorry - what happened?" Maybe if he vented, he wouldn't - he had gotten fully naked while you formed the question. You could feel the wet mat of the shower under your feet, goosebumps beginning to form on your body hair. You were cold.

"I bought that bitch dinner and she didn't - she - you were supposed to be practice, but when I tried, she kicked me. You'd never kick me." His hands cupped your - don't think where, don't think about where, pretend you're still washing yourself, only... he held heat and you were cold from being wet so you leaned into the warmth, but that meant leaning towards him. Maybe part of you trusted he wouldn't touch you again, even though he was already touching you. Somehow you couldn't make yourself move.

You inhaled a shaky breath, acutely aware of how close he was standing, he was in the bathtub too, and you were cold. Not scared. Why would you be scared? Just because his clothes are next to yours on the toilet and you can't see a way to the door... your breathing quickened. Scared. You were. He spoke again, drinking in your fear with a look of victory in his eyes.

"You want me. You're not going to stop me." He spoke with such finality, and he was right. You didn't stop him, you didn't know what you wanted besides to pretend to be elsewhere, alone again... And then he kissed you, your bodies pressed against each other, his arms hugging you like the towel you should have been wearing would have...

This wasn't happening. This wasn't real; you weren't really being raped by your own brother. Was that even a word you could use? You didn’t say a word, didn’t kick out or risk hurting him, he pressed you against the wall. There was nowhere to go. Was the r-word applicable here? You knew you were overthinking about words to avoid your emotions. He demanded you leave when he was done with you, and you did exactly what he wanted. Left him and his clothes in the shower, not bothering with a towel. Just shirt, underwear, under covers, under a blanket of denial that would morph into sleep eventually.

You wouldn't want to wake up the next morning, would shrug off all responsibilities by feigning severe fatigue to the point your parents had to pretend to care for you. You're not confessing, you're collapsing. But who wouldn't collapse after what you had been through? As long as you laid in your bed, nothing about your life would have to change. Your stomach could beg for food, your mouth could be dry, but that made it farther away from how it had felt when... you were going to lay in bed until you died, you thought to yourself. He would only understand what he had done if you collapse into that extreme of a condition. Only he wouldn't. He would walk into your room after school as though he had every right to enter, and say "hey, you didn't tell Mom or Dad what happened, right?"

"No, now go away," only he leaned over and kissed your cheek as you rolled away from him, pulling the covers back overhead.

"Good. Because we both know you wanted it,"

"Noooooooo" you moaned, dragging the ooooo out until it wasn't even a word. Your brother laughed, left, and you were left wondering if he was right. Had you? No, only you hadn't locked the bathroom door, you had shrunk away towards the wall rather than making a break for the door, you hadn't kicked him or said no last night. You didn't even really say no just now. You were pathetic. You were drifting along a river of existing, and the next day, you got up and returned to real life again.

Your parents were relieved you didn't need a doctor. They had your brother drive you both to school, and you sat in the passengers' seat, staring out the window, until halfway down your street you couldn't take the feeling that you maybe hadn't communicated. "I didn't want it, you know."

"Excuse me?"

"When I was showering and you interrupted me after your date - you said I wanted it. I didn't." He scoffed, and then that turned into a full-on laugh. You tried again. "I'm serious,"

"Yeah, and I'm on my way to win Prom Queen," he snarked back, so you stopped reacting. What was the point? You didn't trust him.

You started watching the locks on the doors more carefully after that. Started choosing towels that hung closer to the bathtub, within arms' reach. Started planning your exits—just in case. But he never tried again. Maybe he believed you, in spite of his sarcastic response. Maybe his own hands were just better at the job. You didn't want to care. You just wanted a real ending, but real life never has clear endings. You trusted your brother, and then you didn't.