The front door slams shut behind me. My lip is swollen and throbbing—but the real pain is what just happened.
Those frightened eyes watching me from behind the neighbor's door make it worse.
Tears well up. My face burning, I step toward their door to ask for help. My hand reaches for the bell. But no. No. They wouldn't understand. I'm used to this. To these outbursts. They're not. They've never seen a child transformed into something animal, no longer recognizing the people who love him. They've never watched blood run down their mother's arms while she stands there helpless, watching her suffer, cry, pray—unable to stop the child throwing himself at her over and over without mercy. They've never felt what it's like to hate that being who in one moment destroyed your home, who can hit your mother, the person you love most, the only person who can spend days and nights alone with him: my brother.
Yes, my little brother. But he's not like other children. He's different. Different from every other kid. He hits other kids. He won't eat with us and then throws plates, forks, glasses, water—everything on the floor. He wants everything I bring home: newspapers, books, photographs. I can't even say something is beautiful without him wanting it immediately, grabbing it by force, and when I try to stop him he carries it into his room, into his bed.
He threw me out. He doesn't want to see me. He cast me out. God knows why. He punched me and sent me away. I did nothing to him.
Now I'm here on the stairwell landing. What do I do? Where do I go? It's 8:30 p.m. I can't just walk around. I can't ring my neighbors' bell. The questions. The pity. Their startled faces. Their insinuating remarks.
I won't cry. I'd feel stupid. So I sit here, up on the top steps, near the attic. There's more light up here and I can study better, even if it's colder. It doesn't matter.
This has become my private corner. More familiar to me than my own room. From here I still hear my brother's screams, his fists on doors and walls. Suddenly a crash—he must have thrown the table down.
"Why don't you understand me? Why don't you help me? I'm sorry for what happened, but it wasn't me."
"Why don't you understand me? Why don't you help me? I'm sorry for what happened, but it wasn't me."
Then silence. It's over. All over. He's calmed down. The crisis has passed. I hear my mother picking up everything he threw on the floor—the broken glass, the torn curtains and books. What happened to the picture of the Madonna? I think I hear my little brother's "calm voice," that strange voice I love so much, and his frightened eyes searching for help, asking you: "Why don't you understand me? Why don't you help me?" That sweet, gentle face of his that seems to say: "I'm sorry for what happened, but it wasn't me." A strange way of showing love.
He must be in bed now. I don't hear him anymore. I can't go home—I'm afraid I'll wake him. I'll go buy milk instead. I'll leave the book outside the door. My mother will get it.
Mariangela, 14 years old—1980