This has no ending, so you can skip it if you want.
I consider myself an opinionated man when it comes to most things. I’ve always thought it was important to have an opinion you could defend instead of being indifferent to it. That way, when someone asks, you can plant two feet into the ground and say, “Yes, I believe that a…” or “No, that’s just ridiculous.”
I grew up in a household where abuse occurred, and it affected me directly. I witnessed things that, had I been a little bit younger, would have caused me to be a direct product of my father. Disrespect women, talk down to them, treat them like objects, and so forth. Fortunately, I was old enough to know that my mother meant more to me than my father, that she was a victim and my father was the scumbag who wasn’t raised properly. I hate to say it because a part of me wishes he could defend himself, but the other part of me knows he never even gave other people that opportunity.
But even taking his background into consideration, what he did to our family to tear us apart and make us choose sides, I still wouldn’t have wished the worst things onto him. I had a brother who was slightly older than me and was an exact replica of him, yet he didn’t deserve the things that happened to him. I’ve never really talked about my brother to anyone because I’ve tried my best to block it out, but sometimes it’s best to let things out, even if no one reads this thing.
A few years ago, my brother was found dead in an alley behind someone’s house. He had been mutilated from his torso down and his lower limbs were gone. His wheelchair was found at a park not too far away. Nothing ever happened. Police never had any leads, and the case went cold. My father was too distraught to identify the remains so I had to suck it up and go myself. It’s a memory I’m trying to erase.
For a long time, I was numb to what had happened. About a year after, I think I lost it. I started thinking about the fact that someone deliberately did this to my brother in the worst way possible, and I would never know who did it. Someone got away with my murder. There was no sense of justice or closure. I think it ate at my father until he died, and when he did, I felt it twice as hard.
When I hear about people not getting the closure that they need, when people get away with things or take the coward’s way out, it stirs up these emotions in me that I can’t really control. I can honestly sympathize with people whose families have been destroyed because of someone else’s heartless intentions. To not be able to do anything about it… I think that’s the worst part. It kills me to not even know who would do such a thing, and if they’re even still alive, living their life as they hadn’t take someone else’s.
Sorry for such a downer; I’ve just been thinking about it a lot lately.
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