He would play this kind of cat-and-mouse game with me all day thus making
me feel that I was making steady progress towards the truth. Instead, he was
digging himself deeper and deeper into a cavernous hole of his own creation. Although I didn’t want to become aggressive, I knew I had to be. That tactic only infuriated him, but I had had enough of his ridiculous game. Later that day I gave him an ultimatum.
My brother always felt that he was being slighted in some way. His pompous and inflated sense of entitlement would follow him into adulthood.
Clearly, he was a dishonest and troubled individual. My brother had a choice to make. He could be truthful with me, or he could pack his belongings and
leave my home at once. Nevertheless, he chose not to leave, and with that, the fisticuffs began.
In the blink of an eye, his hands were wrapped tightly around my neck
squeezing my throat like a python would constrict its prey. Slowly but surely, his vice-like grip was cutting off my air supply. I can still remember the hun-
dreds of little black spots I saw before my eyes because they kept multiply-
ing. Soon there would be thousands of them, and I know this because I was
trying to count them only in my fight to remain conscious. He then loosened his grip only to lift me up by my neck with the drug-induced strength of
three men and began to slowly yet methodically pound the back of my head against the family room wall. I could feel the warmth of the blood oozing
down the back of my neck, not realizing then that the gaping wound in my skull would need six staples for it to close and heal properly. Although, I
have little recollection of that specific moment, it does tend to play like a movie strip in my mind from time to time.
I must have been screaming at the top of my lungs because one of the neighbors who stood on his front lawn staring at me ever so suspiciously called
911. Though the battle felt like it lasted for hours, it was over in minutes. I was safely in the back of an ambulance on my way to the closest trauma center. My brother was taken away by the very same two Oakland County sher-
iff’s deputies and charged with assault with intent to do great bodily harm,
possession of a controlled substance, uttering and publishing, and fraud. He would plead guilty to a single charge of simple assault because all the other
charges were dismissed. As much as I demanded justice be done, dismissing charges for a first-time offender is par for the course.
In the end, I did find out what the truth was. My brother had been addicted to controlled substances for quite a long time, for he had lied and stolen
from everyone to get his “fix.” He had left his family behind in his wake of
utter devastation to pick up the pieces and move on. As a direct result of his disturbing and atrocious behavior, my family and I did just that.
I haven’t spoken to my brother since that picturesque Saturday in July 2006 for good reason. The events of that day have affected me profoundly in 62 >
The Macomb Community College journal of student words and images.