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Summary
Your first katana was flimsy plastic with easily-chipped paint that flecked off onto your grubby kid hands and stuck. You like to think that your sweat deformed it, shaped it, because you slept with it clutched in both hands and woke up with it glued to your skin. It couldn’t cut for shit. It was light, hollow – it snapped on the first honest-to-god blow.
If the katana was his way of teaching you how to fight, then what happened on your eleventh birthday was his way of teaching you how to fuck. Bro always preferred the hands-on approach.