There's a Monster in the House

1.1

This is a true story based on my childhood. 

My brother, Brian and I had gone to bed.  We were laying there, maybe talking a bit before falling asleep, that part I can't remember. At that time, we were young enough to still be able to sleep in a single twin bed together.  I was about 3, he was exactly one year younger than me.

As we lay there talking, our bedroom door burst open, and my dad came over to my brother’s side of the bed and began to take off the belt he was wearing.  We knew what was coming.  It happened many times before. We just didn't know why this time.  Was it because we were talking instead of sleeping, was it something we had done from earlier in the day, did we giggle too loud?  We didn’t know.  And before we could figure it out, my dad started to swing his belt at my brother with everything my dad had for strength.  Striking him over and over again. 

Because I was lying next to Brian, one of the swings hit my leg and I cried out.  It didn’t matter that I was collateral damage.  No, “oh, I’m sorry” ever came.  EVER.  Not that it mattered if he was sorry. The damage was done.

I felt bad for my brother because I did know how much each strike hurt, and he was getting several of them. I was angry, thinking, only he was supposed to get hit, and here I had gotten one of the strikes meant for him. 

I remember dad screaming, but I don’t remember what he was saying.  Usually it would consist of “Goddammit, how many times do I have to tell you not to do that!”  Or "I'm sick of you two always fighting!”  And let me say, he didn’t just yell, he screamed so loud, if we lived in a town, any neighbor would have heard.  He would turn beet red and the veins in his head would literally pop out.

I don’t remember if any explanation was given that time.  I do remember that there were many times, I didn’t always understand why.  Sometimes, this would happen if we played too loud or giggled too loud and dad thought we were fighting, we didn't always know.  It could come instantly, or later in the day after he had come home from work and Mom told him what he had done that day.

The times he hit us both and screamed at us for always fighting, I learned to hate my brother. I blamed him. If he wasn't around, I thought I would hardly ever get hit. Spanked is what my parents called it. My brother also learned to hate me. He was hit all the time and was jealous that I didn't get it as often. A goodie-two-shoes he once called me. I knew he was hit more, but I thought it was because he deserved it. I've always known my parents wanted to have me. And my dad wanted to have a daughter. My brother was an accident. But as a child, I didn't realize how much my dad hated him. I would be told why he would get hit and grounded by my mom and didn't find out later until I was an adult, what really happened.

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