I come from a family of abusers. Well, not really a family anymore since my twin brother -the only person who isn’t dead and used to trust- and my insane mother left, leaving me only with the bastard I clench my teeth while calling father. 

My brother left when I needed him -no, not really- the most. Although I was perfectly fit to take care of myself, I needed a little company. He was fun to hang around, helping me with the chores around the tiny flat we rented. I was perfectly capable of protecting myself, however, he was not. You see, he has a blood coagulation disorder. I remember him almost bleeding to death once if it weren’t for my sudden neighbour’s help. I swore on my life since then to protect him -since I was the older- from the man we were supposed to look up to. He left while playing truant, his clothes dumped inside his filthy haversack instead of his bloodied books. I was upset then, wondering  why he hadn’t taken me along but I realised that he probably figured I could survive by myself with him. I could actually but I thanked god he didn’t take me along with him. What would have happened to everything? To me? I was afraid of change. What would I have done anyway if I had gone with my twin? What if he came looking for us after we had left? I stayed, those years being the worst. 

The 3 whole years, I stayed in the filthy, whiskey (and cigarette) smelling house. It was that one night, that evening being the worst, where everything changed. Literally. Even me.