Sutures

I'm with my brother, a mere 7 years old crumpled with innocent ears pressed to the cold vent on my bedroom floor. The uncaring metal exposes the battle occurring in the basement below to us. Vases smash, voices raise, and I hear my name thrown about amongst the insults, only serving to feed the ever-growing guilt in my young stomach and cause the weight on my shoulders grow. I bury those feelings and wrap him in my arms, he deserves better than to live with this daily strife. After a lifetime the demented voices subside, and I put him to bed. Back in my room I unsheathe my pen and begin to asses my wounds. Every word acts as an elementary suture, not quite enough to negate the inevitable scarring of my mind, but enough to save me from bleeding out. This is my daily routine, my childhood.