By Austin Anthony

Content Warning: Child Sexual Assault

You’re twenty-one, and you’re finally home, and I didn’t say that I missed you, but I probably do. We used to share the same bathtub when we were too young to know what a body meant, and you’d sit in the front to bear all the hot water for me. By the time those warm waters reached me, they all died down. I wondered if it burned your skin, but I never asked. Back then, you never seemed to care.

We both know bodies now. We now know what happens to skin when it’s touched too closely or by the wrong hand, and I think that for some reason which I cannot understand, I know this better than you do and I’m only sixteen. Because I learned how to drive before I learned how to walk. The two of us used to go to our grandfather’s house and sleep downstairs, and my grandfather used to go bump-in-the-night ‘round 5 a.m, naked, searching for something still warm—and the clock tick tick ticked, but he only touched me and you left unscathed. 

You’re twenty-one and you only came back to Texas to give me your car. What did you do in there? Who did you kiss in here? I’ve never touched another face but his and all of this is all mine now. Is it too much to inherit? I wish I could be the one giving you the car. I wish that I were the one letting go. I sometimes wonder why he picked me when you were always prettier. Sometimes I wonder if he picked you too and you just never told me. But our parents bought this car, used, for a few thousand dollars. Then they gave it to you and then to me and I’m wondering: how much does it take for a memory to be worth more than that? And the first time I drove it, I looked in the rear-view mirror and I said to myself: I’m starting to look more like you. But I never said it ‘cause I knew you’d agree and that scared me. 

I remember last week, I drove us downtown. You sat in the backseat of that black Mercedes and I couldn’t help but think of how it’s not summer yet, and still, I could feel it reaching its hands out to meet me. And so I stopped the car and stepped out, and you got in. You asked me: Why is the seat so high? I guess I’m just not you yet. You showed me how to parallel park, and I did it right on the first try.

I remember two years ago, you drove down the freeway to that one concert and told me how to talk to girls. That was back when I still liked them, and back when you’d still love who I actually am. But you don’t need to know that. Nobody ever has to find out. We both know how to keep a secret so well. For now, I’ll just go back. Last week: I drove through the trees to reach where the sun could still shine as it fell—just so it would make your face more visible when it smiled, ‘cause I was actually alive and I really needed to be able to tell that you’re proud of your brother right now. 

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Austin Anthony is a 17 year old writer from Texas. He loves to spend his time writing or watching movies, which is his main passion.