my brother was 8 years old and he was already trying to protect me

this gets me every time i see it. every single time.

our house was a warzone growing up. mom and dad fighting constantly, breaking stuff, mom hitting dad, dad choking mom, mom threatening to stab him with a knife. one fight and the windows were gone, the tv was gone, the doors were literally off the hinges. so loud. always so loud.

me and my brother were little. i was six, he was eight. babies, honestly. i look back now and we were just babies.

but every time mom and dad started going at it, my brother would take my hand and bring me to the bedroom. he'd pull the blanket over both of us and read me fairy tales. while our parents were out there destroying the house. he just. read me stories.

after the fights, mom would leave to buy alcohol somewhere and dad would just disappear. so my brother would come out, clean up the broken glass off the floor, wipe everything down, and make sure i ate.

he was eight years old doing all of this.

he grew up saying he'd never get married. never.

then in his third year of middle school, he killed himself.

he would've been such a good dad. i genuinely believe that. but now he's frozen at that age forever. younger than me now, permanently.

mom and dad still fight like they're trying to kill each other. and every time it happens i see him. eight years old, sitting next to me under that blanket, voice cracking while he reads me a story.

i feel like i'm dying.