The front door slams shut behind me. My lips are swollen. They throb. But the pain I feel now is nothing compared to what just happened.
Those eyes haunt me—my neighbors' eyes, wide with fright, watching from the doorway next to ours. My face burns. Tears start coming. I move toward their door, my hand ready to ring the bell. But I stop. No. They wouldn't understand. I'm used to this. Used to these outbursts. They've never seen a child turn into something other than human, someone who no longer knows the people who love him. They've never watched blood run down their own mother's arms while she stands there helpless, suffering, weeping, praying—unable to stop the child hurling himself at her again and again without mercy. They've never felt what it's like to hate the person who, in a single moment, can destroy everything in the house, who can strike the one person he should love most, the one person brave enough to stay alone with him day and night: my brother. My little brother. But he's not like other children. He's different. Different from all of them. He hits other kids. He won't eat with us, then he throws the plates, the utensils, the glasses, the water—everything—onto the floor. He wants everything I bring home: newspapers, books, photographs. I can't even say I like something without him wanting it immediately, grabbing it from me by force, taking it to his room and locking it away in his bed.
He's the one who threw me out. He doesn't want to see me. He punched me and sent me away. I don't know why. I didn't do anything to him. Now I'm here on the landing, staring at the stairs. What do I do? Where do I go? It's 8:30 p.m. I can't just wander around outside. I can't ring my neighbors' bell—all those questions, all that pity. Those shocked faces. Those whispered comments.
I won't cry. I won't be stupid like that. Instead, I climb up. I sit on the top flight of stairs, near the attic door. There's more light here. I can study better, even though it's colder. It doesn't matter.
This has become my place. My refuge. More familiar to me than my own room.
Even from here I can hear him screaming. His fists pounding on doors, on walls. Then a crash—probably the table. He's thrown it on the floor. Then silence. It's over. Everything stops. The crisis has passed.
I hear my mother picking things up. The broken glass. The torn curtains and books. What happened to the picture of the Virgin Mary?
And then I hear it—my brother's "calm voice," that strange voice I love so much. Those frightened eyes searching for help, asking silently: "Why don't you understand me? Why won't you help me?" That sweet, delicate face saying: "I'm sorry for what happened. It wasn't me." That strange way he has of showing love.
He must be in bed now. I can't hear him anymore. I can't go home—I'm afraid of waking him. I'll go buy some milk. I'll leave the book outside the door. My mother will find it.
Mariangela, 14 years old - 1996
Perhaps One Day
It's easy for you, young friends,
to come to Fede e Luce.
It's your choice.
It's easy for you, teachers
who welcome my brother Jerome:
you've decided this is your work.
And easy for you, parents: he's your son.
You love him because he is who he is,
you even give him your preference.
That's natural.
But for us, his brothers and sisters:
he's not our friend,
he's not our job,
he's not our son.
So try to understand us
when we don't want
to come to Fede e Luce.
Be patient when we do
come, now and then.
Perhaps one day,
the way it happened with others,
I'll let myself be won over.
Perhaps one day
my brother too
will become my friend.
- Gilles, 1996
===FINE===