Dear Ana: A Novel

Dear Ana,

We were siblings for twelve years before he started to hit me.

I don’t know why I was so surprised when it happened. All the signs were there, in plain fucking sight. It’s a straightforward concept, Ana––angry people always start by hitting things around you before ultimately hitting you––and Mikhail was exactly that. Angry. From the moment my brain was developed enough to understand my surroundings, the first thing I noticed was his rage. It was deep and it was destructive. The second thing I noticed was that it was random. He would be fine for hours, days, weeks, and then . . . boom. An explosion would go off in his soul, obliterating everything and everyone in his path. The problem was that I could never figure out what the trigger was. There was no pattern to follow or routine to memorize so I was constantly on my toes, waiting. Always wary. Always scared.

And the third thing I noticed about my big brother was that he hated me. It was obvious, Ana. The only thing not obvious was whether his hatred was warranted.

He chose my birthday for the initiation. That was typical for Mikhail. He loved to turn everything into a fucking spectacle. Every breath he took was a theatrical production and I always got a front-row seat, free of charge.

He didn’t start right away, for dramatic effect of course. He let me enjoy my chocolate chip pancakes without interruption. Money was tight so I wasn’t expecting any presents, but just as I was digging into my second plate my dad told me to come outside with him. I remember squealing with joy at the sight of my new green bike. I could tell from the paint scratches on the sides that it was probably used, but I didn’t mind. It was more than I could ever ask for.

That part of my birthday all seems like a fever dream, looking back at it. The one thing that stands out to me now is my brother. At the time, I didn’t think much when he never wished me a happy birthday. I never questioned the way he stood beside my smiling parents, watching silently as I rode my new––well, new to me––bike up and down the street. I was too excited to notice how, unlike my parents who were watching me enjoy my gift with delight, he was watching me with disgust.

Which led right into Act I––Mikhail repeatedly plunging a pocket knife into the tires of my bike.

I caught him right after I came back from the bathroom, but he didn’t look surprised to see me. He planned it, Ana. Every move was perfectly calculated in his fucked up brain.

“What are you doing, Mikhail?” I demanded, swallowing the sob growing in my throat. I was trying to sound firm but my voice came out exactly how he always made me feel.

He smiled in response. My fear satiated him.

“You’re going to get in so much trouble with Mama and Baba!”

“Am I though, Maya?”

He was right, of course. My parents wouldn’t do anything. My poor, immigrant parents were too busy trying to navigate through the western world to notice that their precious son was in desperate need of some medical attention. Not that they would have done anything even if they had realized. They were raised in a place and at a time when mental illness wasn’t a thing. If you weren’t physically broken, then you didn’t need fixing. My parents saw his anger as something normal. He’s a boy, Maya, and boys get mad.

He just had a bad day, Maya.

Stop being so sensitive, Maya.

He’s your brother, Maya.

And when his anger continued to intensify, they saw it as a test from God, and the only solution was to pray, pray, pray . . .

That wasn’t the only reason. My parents were also raised to abide by one simple principle. The same principle that the rest of the world seemed to follow as well.

Family. Over. Everything.

So it didn’t matter if Mikhail was toxic. It didn’t matter if he was a bad son and an even worse brother. He was family, Ana, and that was the end of it.

I should’ve just walked away like I usually did, but I was so mad at him for ruining my birthday and I let that anger choose for me. I went inside and I tattled on him.

One decision, Ana. One split-second verdict was all it took to change the course of my life forever.

Which immediately prompted Act II.

I ran upstairs just as the yelling started, grabbing the home phone on my way up as my snack of choice. My brother was already cussing at the top of his lungs by the time I closed my door and sat in my closet. I wanted to cover my ears, but I couldn’t. I needed to listen. As long as I heard their voices I would know they were safe.

I heard stomping as Mikhail went up to his room, my parents right behind him.

They were screaming now, and Mikhail was calling me a liar. Insisting that I was doing it for attention.

And then he punched the wall . . . for emphasis? Ostentatious effect? The scene wasn’t playing out as melodramatic as he wanted? Whatever the reason, it worked. The vibrations from the impact were so strong, they rattled every bone in my body.

My parents backed off after that, retreating to their room without any punishment or discipline for his chaotic and uncalled-for behavior. I stepped out into the hall and saw Mikhail’s door wide open in my peripheral view. Before I could stop myself I slowly moved to his room and, after a quick sweep to make sure he wasn’t around, I walked inside.

Sure enough, there was a fist-sized hole in our adjoining wall. It looked like his hand had gone completely through, and there were pieces of drywall littered all over his bedspread. I wondered what he was picturing when he did that.

Or who.

I didn’t want to be there anymore, so I turned around to leave and nearly jumped out of my skin when I saw Mikhail standing directly behind me.

“Jesus Mikhail,” I said, my hand flying to my chest. “You scared me.”

He didn’t respond. He just continued to stare at me, scattering goosebumps all over. I couldn’t understand my body’s reaction, or why I suddenly felt like I was exhaling more air than I was inhaling, but my instincts were telling me to escape. The floor was suddenly made of glue, but I forced my feet to move around him. I stepped onto the landing above the stairs and felt the same hand that was previously through the wall wrap around my arm.

“Let go of me,” I whispered. I tried to move my arm out of his iron grasp but he wouldn’t budge.

He leaned in, closing the small space between us. “Do you think I don’t know what you’re doing?” he asked, clutching my arm tighter. My teeth sunk into my bottom lip before I could cry out. “You keep making up lies about me to get me into trouble.”

“Lies? I just saw you destroying my bike––”

And then he slapped me across the face, swiftly launching us into Act III.

I was confused. Shocked. Unsure if it even happened. If he actually hit me. But then my cheek started to flare, and my eyes brimmed with tears and my heart, Ana. My heart hurt.

“I was just trying to teach you a lesson, Maya. Make you better.”

I didn’t respond.

He hit me, Ana. My brother fucking hit me.

I twisted and turned to get away from him but his grip was airtight, and then suddenly he smiled at me, and I thought oh, okay, this is a joke. We didn’t have that silly and playful brother/sister relationship like other families did, but I forced a smile back anyway and it worked. He let go of my arm . . . before shoving me down the stairs.

I always imagined falling would be like how they showed it in the movies. My body would soar down in slow motion, defying all the rules of gravity while a coming-of-age song commenced somewhere in the distance. Then, just before the main character fell to the ground, they would wake up in their big comfy bed and sigh in relief because it was just a dream.

But my life wasn’t a movie and this wasn’t a dream. My back hit one of the thirteen tiled steps first, and then I tumbled the rest of the way down. My limbs were paralyzed from the impact for a few seconds as I lay there feeling nothing, and I briefly wondered if it really was a dream. But then the pain hit me from every angle and I knew it was real.

After a thorough inspection from my mother it was concluded that, besides the bruises covering every inch of my body, I was fine.

I looked fine.

I was completely and utterly fine . . . except I wasn’t.

I tried talking to my mom, but she shushed me and then helped me up the stairs and into my bed. It wasn’t until later that night when I could finally get myself to take a shower, that I noticed it. Five long bruises were hugging my forearm vertically with one large circle in the center.

A handprint.

I let my anger take over again and decided to give my parents a second chance to redeem themselves. He marked me, Ana. They couldn’t ignore that. I reached the foot of the stairs and could hear my parents in the kitchen talking in hushed voices. Mikhail wasn’t with them, which fueled my determination even more.

“Eviction notice?” Mama said, her voice full of panic. “But it’s only been two weeks since the rent was due!”

Her words halted me mid-step.

“It’s okay, Fatma, I’m going to call Elizabeth tomorrow,” Baba reassured her. “We’ve never been this late before. I’ll just explain our situation and she’ll understand.”

It was obvious from the strain in his voice that it wasn’t going to be easy. I could hear my mom’s quiet sniffles as she tried to contain herself, but one painful sob managed to slip through.

Sympathy replaced my anger, and for the second time that day, I made a decision that changed the course of my life forever. I never tattled on him. I was furious with myself for even considering it. My parents already had enough to deal with, and all I would end up doing was add more hardship to their tired souls. And for what? Because I was mad at Mikhail? Because we didn’t get along? Siblings fight, Ana. No one’s family was perfect. I wasn’t special, or different, or one of a kind.

I went back upstairs and spent the next few weeks wearing long sleeves during the sweltering summer. I took the incident with Mikhail and shoved it deep into my mind, never speaking it into existence until I started to wonder if it even happened at all.

I wish I could tell you that was the first and last time, but it wasn’t. Mikhail’s third act never ended. With each nightmare, I became more and more reluctant to tell my parents and now here I am, lying in a hospital bed with a broken body, a broken mind, and a heart that doesn’t belong to me. Maybe things would be different if I’d pushed past my guilt and told my parents what really happened that day. Maybe not. Maybe this is just how my story is meant to go. All I know is that my birthday will never just be my birthday, Ana. It will always be the day my brother decided to punish me for being born.

I’m not ready to talk about that car accident, but I want someone to know. I want you to know, Ana, because you’re the reason I’m still here.

Do you regret saving me yet?