An Explanation

Trigger warnings: domestic abuse, rape, suicide

To Perry Richards. Not to be opened until the day after your 18th birthday. 

Happy belated birthday little brother. 

You're probably burying your head in a bog, bucket or bowl today, rather than sifting through sand for bones. But hey, I hope you're still pursuing that dream of becoming an archaeologist. You big dork. 

That said, I am so incredibly proud of you, I hope you know that. I always was. I adored your love for learning, the way your eyes grew as you discovered something new. Don't let the memories of my teasing hide that fact. 

I’ll admit it now, alright? You were smarter than me. There, I’ve said it! Just don't let it go to your head, right, little Pear-Bear?! 

I imagine you're not so little anymore. Probably find Pear-Bear embarrassing too, but that's what big sisters are for, right?  

I know, they're also meant to be there for you. To fight with you; literally and figuratively, you know, by your side when the world gets tough. And to help make sense of the clusterfuck that is life. Make sure you know you're never going to be alone.  

Yet, that's exactly what I did to you, wasn't it? Left you, to brave the shitstorm alone. 

You can see why I instructed you not to read this until after your birthday, right? ‘Happy Birthday! Now, here’s a letter to bring you down and ruin your day! Yay!’ 

I want you to – no – I need you to know why I left. That's why I've messaged you now, finally, after all these (ten!!) years in which you've probably grown up hating me. I totally understand if you have. I just need to hope there's a chance that my little Pear-Bear can forgive me and, who knows, maybe find a new dinosaur he could name after me?? Rubysaurus? Might not chase you around the house like the Rubysaurus used to, but at least it’ll be there for you, right? 

Obviously, I don't know what you remember, so I'll start from the moment he arrived. 

It had been a couple of months since the divorce; Mum had handled it with parties and strangers. Simon was, I thought, just another passenger, along for the ride. Until he wasn't. He moved in after a couple of weeks. 

I never liked him. Mum once said she thought I never wanted her to be happy, because I'd never listen to him and I 'made life difficult' by not talking to him. I still don’t think I acted any differently than any other 12-year-old whose life had been turned upside down, but hey ho!

'He’s trying,' Mum said, 'he misses his own daughter,' who he had abandoned at the other end of the country, just like we'd been forgotten by Dad. 

You were upset, at the time, when weekend after weekend went by and Dad didn’t turn up, didn’t even bother to let us know he wasn’t coming. But you seemed able to make sense of it, or, at least, to accept it. You still waited at the window on a Saturday morning, staring blankly out the window until late-afternoon in the hopes that he would show, but would then happily sit-down for dinner and go about the rest of your day. I think it became a routine for you, just something you did. I envied you for that, but it’s something else I love about you, Pear - that raw strength of will, like a rock braving the crashing tide. It’s for that that I hope you managed to cope well without me – didn't let the storm of my leaving batter you down. 

As for me, I was upset. I was angry. I was confused. I couldn't understand: why Dad didn't want to see us, why Mum had to find a replacement, why I should have to replace his fucking daughter, and why I should be expected to play happy fucking family! I just wanted things to be as they were. Of course, that was never going to happen. 

Mum began to change, especially when she lost her job at the care-home. She smiled less, I noticed, and everything was done with a sigh or a slam. Annoyed at me, I guessed, or upset about being out of work.  

We argued every day, over the smallest of things: why didn't I say good morning to Simon; why didn't I take Simon's empty cup to the sink with everyone else's; why did I leave the room when he entered. The truth (I didn't see him; my hands were full; I needed the toilet) never seemed to matter. OK, I’ll admit, some of the times I did things to wind him up, let him know I wasn’t happy with him being there. Either way, he wasn’t Dad and I owed him nothing. Not that I owed Dad anything either, but, you know, Dad’s Dad, he’s actual family. 

It wasn't just me that didn't like Simon, though Mum seemed blind to the fact. Auntie Iris no longer came round for social visits or for babysitting duties – Mum and Simon never went out. Eventually, even Donna (Mum's best-friend of over 20 years) stopped visiting. Only thing I can put that down to is Simon. Common denominator, right? 

They weren't fond of the drink, I think. I remember that he got drunk every day after work. Like, straight home, open the fridge, open a can. I think Mum and Simon argued about it, we'd hear shouting sometimes at night. I remember you got scared one night and ran into my room. I told you that's just what couples do, they fight sometimes (or so TV and Mum and Dad’s marriage had taught me), though I wasn't sure they were in love. I don’t remember ever seeing them kiss; there was little affection – no cuddles on the couch, no surprise hugs from behind when she was doing the dishes, nothing like that – and I'd never heard Simon tell Mum that he loved her. 'Bloody Men’ to quote Mum, eh? 

I asked her about the drink a few times, I knew from staying at friends' houses that it wasn't normal, though Mum said it was, 'Well, he's worked hard all day. Got to treat yourself, don't you?' That excuse changed to 'well, he's worked hard all week...' when the weekend day-drinking started. It wasn’t long before she joined him. 

She began to snap a lot more after that. She'd scream at me if chores weren't done when first asked and she’d send the occasional smack across the back of my legs at the slightest back-chat or grumble. Honestly, I began to feel unloved, unwanted... a burden. Dad had made clear he didn’t want us and now Mum was showing she didn’t care for me, either. That’s how I saw it.  

You were too young and too sweet, so nearly always avoided the wrath – well, that and you’d always do as you were told, without complaint.  

I see now that you faced the storm, accepted and weathered it. I couldn’t do that, and so I added to the chaos by shouting back, slamming doors of my own, and staying out late. I was grounded a lot, which Simon found funny. I hated him. I couldn’t even truly tell you why, at the time, other than the fact that things changed after he had moved in. 

I remember we were late home one-day, because I'd carried my bad behaviour over to school (not for the first time), my grades had dropped and Mrs Turnbull wanted a word with Mum. I was expecting rage, another fight when she was done. There was none of that. She was more concerned with the time. We had a silent march home, Mum near-enough dragging us almost running behind her to keep up. I was more frightened of her then than at any other point – the not knowing – I would happily have taken a slanging match and a clip across the legs. 

When we got home, Simon was already back. We heard the fridge, microwave and oven doors slam shut in quick succession. ‘Are you fucking taking the piss?’ Simon, not a shout, but angry. Mum froze. Not for long, but long enough for me to know something wasn’t right, to note her fear. With a forced smile, she told us to get upstairs. As always, you listened. As always, I didn't. I lingered halfway up the stairs, peering over the bannister and into the kitchen. 

I watched him hit her, Pear. Slapped her across the face, grabbed her hair and thrust her down to look at the empty oven.  

I watched him drag her head back and say something - ‘useless slapper,’ or ‘useless slut’ - spat through gritted teeth, right in her face. He looked up, saw me, and, I swear, he smiled.  

What did I do? Nothing. Nothing, but cry. 

I joined you upstairs after that, Pear; we played Ker-Plunk and I let you win. The joy on your face was just enough to break through my feelings of guilt, fear, and uncertainty. 

Mum didn’t speak about what I saw, but she did say that Simon had been under a lot of stress with work, and supporting a family by yourself was difficult. It was bullshit, obviously, and I couldn’t figure out why she hadn’t left him, hadn’t kicked him out. Anyway, I had seen it and done nothing. God knows how long things had been going on. My sense of guilt only grew; I felt like I had failed her. If only I had stepped forward, said or done something then maybe things would be different now. 

Instead, the abuse only got worse and occurred more often. 

Insults: useless, pathetic, worthless, slag, slapper, whore, were commonplace around me – nearly always wrapped up in a laugh; a shit attempt to hide their venom, to almost make them seem like fucking pet names for Mum. 

Control; he held all the money. I hadn’t seen it before – probably due to the constant arguing, so I rarely looked at her in a positive way, which I feel fucking awful for admitting – but Mum had been in the same clothes for almost two-years, and she no longer wore make-up or went to the hairdresser. She had always had a limited wardrobe, which she used to refresh on the regular. She used to take pride in her appearance. She used to be beautiful. I hope that she found that again, over time, and that my leaving didn’t push her further from herself. You have to know that is not want I wanted, and if I made things worse, then I am so, so sorry! 

It wasn’t just money. He’d control sleep; blasting shitty sci-fi movies all night, repeating the same scene over, and over, and over again, shouting along in roars of fucking laughter, ‘Perhaps today is a good day to die!’ Fuck Star Trek! 

He’d control what we could do in the morning; we had to be quiet (I mean, ridiculously quiet), so as not to wake him, meaning subtitled TV and no playing – we couldn’t even leave the house in case the sound of the door woke him up. He’d control what we ate. It had to be what he liked. His plate was always heaped, ours enough so as not to starve. There were days that Mum didn’t eat with us. ‘I’ll get mine later, I’m not hungry.’ She’d say. We didn’t realise we ate more on those days. 

Open violence was more common too. He’d pinch the back of her neck or dig into her shoulder if she walked past. He’d squeeze her leg, knuckles going white as he dug in his fingers, when watching TV. He’d punch her – anywhere but the face was fair game to him. I’ve seen him drag her off the kitchen stool, throw her to the floor and kick her. I’ve seen him put cigarettes out on her arms. I can only imagine the torment that I haven’t seen. Any pain that she felt, she kept inside. For you, I think. For us both, maybe.  

I still did nothing. I was useless. I started failing more at school, didn’t bother to go in some days. 

You began to notice. Your furrowed brow occasionally lifting on one-side as you tried to process what you saw. Tried to make sense of the shit-show around you.  

I didn’t help you, Pear. I failed you as much as I failed Mum. I tried my best to act as though everything was fine. Simply adding to the illusion that what he did was normal, that it was acceptable. I will hate myself if that is the man you have grown up to be! Promise me you will never be anything like him! Promise me, Pear! 

Mum started to drink earlier – she would be several glasses down before Simon returned from work. ‘Less for him.’ She said to me once. A way to numb the pain and to get back at him, I guessed. A small showing of resistance, something that was hers to control.  

Simon simply bought more. 

Earlier drinking meant more drinking. More drinking meant Mum was often passed out, or too drunk to care, come 8pm. He didn’t like that. Rather than being more aggressive, more violent, or physical, as I had feared he might, he just looked at her in contempt. ‘Look at the state of that. I’m not shagging that.’ He’d say, then look at me with a smirk. 

Life carried on like that for a while, until he turned his attention to me. 

I don’t think the stench of cheap lager and stale sweat will ever leave me. I can still feel the pressure of his grip, the weight of his body as he... 

You don’t need details, Pear.  

I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to say them out loud to myself, let alone write them. 

Just know that that was my life for months. 

I never told Mum. 

I couldn’t live there anymore, Pear. And I was too weak, too frightened to seek help. 

I am sorry. 

Whatever I left you with, I am sorry.  

I am sorry I failed you, time and again. 

I couldn’t live anymore, Pear. 

I couldn’t live. 

* * * 

Ruby finished reading her suicide note for the sixth time that week. Her thoughts, as always, went to her brother and how he would be once she was gone. He was the only thing stopping her. She knew what she had to do to end her pain (she had been stashing pain-killers for months and now had more than enough), but struggled to bring herself to do it, to cause Perry to suffer like that. To betray him. To leave him. 

She heard the slow, heavy thudding of Simon’s drunken ascent from beyond her door. A numbing fear froze over her. She listened. More steps followed by a long eerie creak that Ruby knew well – the floorboard just outside the bathroom. She waited. A torrent of piss followed by that same long creak. He didn’t wash his hands – he never did. More footsteps. Then, a belch from the room next to hers. He had gone to bed. His own bed. She was safe, for tonight. 

‘Perhaps, today is a good day to die?’ She whispered to herself.