And you wonder why I'm so broken.

I would lock the door, trembling in the room as my right fist clenched a kitchen knife 'till my knuckles went white. You didn't care, shouting like a psychopath outside and kicking the door with all your masculine strength. The old lock gave way after you forced your way inside and as quickly as you balled your hands into fists to punch me, I had just as quickly thrust the knife into the air, giving you a silent warning. You scowled, shouting obscenities at me and slowly retreated, promising to get me another time.

You did.

The moment you broke the lock, the huge trust I gave to that rusty, inanimate object ceased to exist. If you went into one of your moods and I hadn't prepared myself with another weapon, it was due to be a bad day for me.

Days like these used to be copious and everyone thought it was because you were merely a spoilt brat. No one did anything about it because they thought you would grow out of it, that maturity would finally take a hold of you. But that never happened. The older you got and the more strength you garnered, the more it hurt when you would beat me up without a moment’s hesitation.

It got so bad that one day, I had a nervous breakdown. I couldn't stand the provoking, the fights, the insults, the bruises and the fact that it was becoming a daily occurrence. I hated coming home. I hated that dad was stationed across the ocean and mom was always held up at work. I hated the days when mom would have urgent matters to tend to and I would always interrupt her in the middle of it, constantly forcing her to get home as soon as possible. You were, again, in one of your moods. I would scream hysterically into the phone, afraid you would find my hiding place soon. I hated that she would frantically get home as soon as she could, worry and panic etched in her mind. I used to think that something bad would happen because she would be speeding all the way with her heart clenched by dread. I hated that the most.

I know she never left the house with a clear head, but there was no choice.

They said it was partly my fault, that it was because I refused to back down. I refused to be bullied so whenever you threw an insult at me, I would throw one right back. Whenever you punched me, I would serve you a kick with equal force. It was when they realised that you would also pick fights with our younger and (then) docile sister that it was wholly, and undoubtedly, you. You, who's the reason our eldest sought a psychiatrist (nothing serious, she just needed to talk about it), and our kind, loving youngest who is so much better than in me so many ways, started a conversation recently with "You know... I wonder if I would be sad if he would just... die. Sometimes I wonder if it's bad that I wish it were so."

The day when our parents placed you in a separate house was probably the one time I felt true relief. But you were quick to play on their sympathy, and you were very, very good at that. You made mom doubt herself, you made her feel like the worst parent on earth for having done that to her only son.

You had everything. A computer, complete entertainment system, a fully-stocked fridge, mom constantly visiting you and getting you anything you want... even a maid.

She paid for the services of a maid just for you.

In fact, it was your idea to stay in that house alone. The house was meant for me, after my nervous breakdown, after I worried mom with my talks of suicide (Though that was just in the heat of the moment). You thought mom was playing favourites, and insisted that you should get the house instead. And you got your wish. Then, a few weeks passed before you got bored of being alone and made mom think that she forced you out of our house, that she stopped loving you, stopped caring for you. You even told complete strangers about it. You manipulated and wrecked the poor woman with so much guilt she cried almost every night.

I would remember when she would be sobbing incessantly, asking us if she was a bad mother and we would coax her and persuaded her otherwise. A bad mother? She was always working and was rarely at home, sure. But that was because she was earning money. For us. To bring me to that expensive restaurant I loved every weekend, to buy the youngest the extravagant dollhouse she's been pining for, to satisfy the eldest with her rare collection of limited albums, to pay for our expensive tuition fees, piano lessons, to buy us the clothes we wanted while she continued wearing the tattered shirts that had micro-rips everywhere. She'd wear those two to three days a week.

I'm not exaggerating.

The one time she did get anything for herself, it was a cat's-eye necklace, not even amounting to RM100, one that I still keep in my drawers back home. She thought it was beautiful and mulled over the purchase one, two, ten times. She'd only bought it because we persuaded her, telling her that it was beautiful on her, and it was. She would then wear it everyday and proudly showed it off to her friends.

She would usually go home tired after work, with every muscle aching and frequent, paralysing migraines, but she made it a point to stay up a few more hours still to ask us about our day. Did we finish our homework? Are we getting behind - and if we were, would we like it if she stayed up so she would help us with Maths and Science?

She was a perfect mother.

Her husband, dad, was a perfect father.

When he failed to reject his promotion and the subsequent transfer, he paid an exorbitant amount on plane tickets so he could either visit us, or vice versa. When he visited, he was always laden with gifts. When we'd visit him, he would bring us out to eat everyday. When hunger pangs attacked past midnight, and all the shops were closed, our dad, the worse cook in the world, would try to cook something regardless. I still remember his feeble attempts and the burn marks from the cooking oil. Although he was a very busy man, he sometimes braved the insane KL traffic to come home during lunchtime. He’d call every hour if he couldn’t, and always had food delivered somehow. Once, I was excited about something so trivial but seemed so important then, and spent all his money on it. I found out somehow that he couldn't even buy lunch for himself the next day from my reckless spending.

He never said a word.

These are the two people whom raised you nobly, who would put us before anything, even them, in the world. These are the people you tormented every day.

You're a fucking monster.

Remember when you grew gradually worse? When the punches weren't just to channel your anger towards me, but to beat me to a bloody pulp? When dad had to fly home damn near weekly to settle things? Or the night you punched his face so hard that his tooth flew out? After you called mom a pathetic mother and a prostitute? When you went so out of the control we had to call the police? Twice?

This is just a mere speck of dust within my dirt of knowledge on all the bad memories you wrought. My head is swirling with all your evil deeds, your iniquities, everything you did as a monster in human form, but I refrain myself from exposing more of it. Otherwise, I would literally be typing the whole night. Or, several nights.

I guess the realisation that I'm coming home and having to meet you soon has been eating at me. It's all I could think of right now and it's diminishing the happiness of meeting friends and family.

All the memories are simmering, resurfacing like bubbles in the sea. Finally, there's that one memory that overpowers all the rest. The one that resolved me to hate you for the rest of my life. To never ever accept you as my bond through blood.

It was the night our parents got into an accident. The last night we'd see them alive.

You were happy that night.