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You’re six when you first notice him filming. You don’t know it yet, but in the coming years you’ll curse yourself relentlessly for not saying anything. For being too fearful, too weak. At first, nothing comes to mind, and you think nothing of it.
What an idiot, you’ll think later, because you didn’t even think to ask him what he was doing. He wasn’t ever the sentimental type, he wouldn’t record you playing just for memories sake.
Instead, you keep playing with those puppets, crashing them into one another and working out a scene of the felts fighting to the death. You give them individual voices, try to deepen your own, but you’re far from achieving masculinity at this point.
You’re a boy, not a man, despite what you’ll try to tell yourself in the coming years. And you certainly don’t sound or look like a man. You’ll know, one day, that’s the appeal. Eventually, you figure it out, what he films you for. You’re ten and you sit beside him on the couch, watching him upload one of the videos to a drive. Whenever you sit next to each other like this, you don’t speak. It’s rare that he lets you spend this quality time with him, and if you speak, you’ll soil it.
At some point, he notices you staring, and seems to read your mind. “You’re gonna be famous,” He snorts, but he doesn’t smile, never does. It sounds nice, being famous. Everyone will love you. Eventually, you’ll realize you were wrong. It wasn’t you they loved.
You’re eight when he hits you for the first time. He had hit you with swords before, metal slicing your skin so easily, but he hadn’t ever put hands on you until then. It was your fault, you thought. You were teasing him after all, you got too comfortable, pushed the boundaries of what your bro considered allowed. It was something trivial, a sly comment about him needing to shave; he’d almost grown a real beard for once beyond peachfuzz.
Maybe it was your tone, maybe he’d had a bad day, maybe it was the alcohol you could practically taste on his breath when he stomped over to you, pushing you backward. The first push had been shocking, and you laughed. It’s still hard to believe some of it wasn’t your fault, you were snarky. You talked back when you knew you shouldn’t have, because you wanted something out of it, even if you were terrified of him. His attention, maybe.
When he pushed you again, it was harsher. There was intent in it, and it abruptly interrupted your laughter. You stopped in your tracks, frozen. “You think this shit is funny, Dave?” He snarled, his thick brows furrowing, just slightly visible above his angular shades. They were pitch-black, there would have been no way to see his eyes but you knew and still do that he was glaring at you. There was hate in his eyes, in his voice, in the way he pushed you again, this time you hit the floor and raised your arms instinctively to protect yourself.
He raised a hand curled into a fist larger than your face, and you winced, preparing for impact. But he didn’t hit you again, his arm shook until he let it drop to his side and he turned his back to you, hunched over. “Fuckin’ faggot,” you heard him curse, a little louder than under his breath. “You’re not even worth it.” He didn’t even spring any swordfights on you in the coming week. He ignored you until you initiated one with him for the first time in your life.
You’d like to think you gained some respect from him with that. You’re thirteen when you find him dead, and you’re twenty one when you finally decide you’re okay with that.