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Dear April

By: Askformore



Dear April,

April, I have to confess something to you. Now before we start, I feel like I need to clarify some things. For one, I don't want to do this. Hell I can't think of anything more terrifying than reopening old wounds and subjecting myself to further pain and embarrassment. The fact that I am typing this right now, when we haven't been able to speak to each other for over a fucking year seems insane to me. 

Hell I doubt that I even need to do this. If we want to be honest with ourselves, we could probably go the rest of our lives without having this conversation. It seems like after that one day, we both had a mutual understanding that whatever sibling relationship we had was over and there was never any reason for us to speak to each other for as long as we both shall live. And even though I do not want to, I do know that I could go my entire life without ever speaking to you again if I absolutely had to.

I'm sure that works fine for you. You were not the one exposed. You never really did have any commitment to me beyond the ones imagined by years of family conditioning. And you were easily able to drop that commitment once it became convenient for you. You had Keith, the man you love and will soon marry. You were pregnant with Shane, a son who would finally give your life a true purpose. And soon you would move out to live and you would finally find that independence you often craved but were to cowardly to acquire.

Me? What do I got? I don't have any loved ones. You were at one time, but that bridge has been thoroughly destroyed. Those who claim to love me really don't. They love me because they feel like they have to. That is not love. That is an obligation, and a shitty one at that.

Our family, they don't even know me, and if they did, they would disown me, which is a special kind of hell. It is like a heavyweight fight that lasts forever. And no matter how many times the other person tries to separate your head from your shoulders or liquidize your ribs into paste, you are simple unable to fall to the canvas and wait for ten. IN so you fight forever, absorbing the blows until the pain is really the only thing you can feel anymore.

I would be an outcast if they knew who I was. Perhaps my aloofness was simply a way to prepare myself from the inevitable. I just know they would hate me. That any sort of love or consideration they have for me would evaporate into the breeze.

I don't have purpose. My life thus far consists of earning my accounting degree, which I use to sit at home and play video games, or summon the balls to write this letter. Any attempts I have taken to find or otherwise create a purpose in my life have been abject failures.

And I am certainly not free. I've always been afraid of the real me. I always thought he was kind of a shithead. So I hid him away, and hid behind the cross. And how I would wield that cross against those I deemed unholy. In truth, it was a prison. Out of fear of the loving smiting power of our heavenly father, I took up the cross and allowed crucified myself.

Our family inadvertently fucked me over; I'm not sure how you feel about them. But now that I pretty much gave up any belief or value this family has ever tried to teach me, I can truly see how fucking wrong they were. Mom in particular. For a good Catholic woman, she sure could be cruel and mean to her kids. Moms are typically supposed to be supportive and caring. But mom really only ever made me feel guilty. If I missed Mass, mom would be there to remind me how I was disappointing Jesus. If I had a little too much to drink the night before, mom would lecture me on the sin of drunkenness. I thought God was supposed to love us, not threaten us will hell every time we failed to follow one of his fucking arbitrary rules. I though moms were supposed to build us up, not tear us down.

Mom devoted a much more considerable amount of her nagging towards you. I remember the times where she would nag at you for clothes you were wearing. Maybe she thought the pants were too tight or too short. Or your shirt was a little too low cut. I remember seeing tears in your eyes over her hurtful remarks. You stood out from our other family members in that you were quite emotional. I remember those nights were I consoled you over mom's treatment of you. I remember trying to get to avoid caring about her cutting remarks. I argued for you so many times. She was wrong, and worse, her being wrong was hurting you. There were nights where I would even start arguments with her to get attention off of you.

You made me feel like you cared. You made me feel like I had worth. You made me feel free.

Maybe that's why I fell in love with you.

Big brothers are not supposed to lust after their little sisters, much less dream of them. They're not supposed to desire them like they would a lewd harlot. They aren't supposed to love them so much that they would die for them in a heartbeat. Their lives are not supposed to be consumed by thoughts of them. Sisters are not supposed to be the stars of fantasies.

But I did, and as such, I failed you completely and utterly. I understand and accept that. I understood the depths of my failure when I first imagined you bent over your table with me thrusting behind you. It only became clearer with every sordid fantasy I ever had of you.

And every tender moment only insured that I would never get over it. Perhaps if you were a little less that absolutely fucking perfect for me, I could have eventually moved on. But no, you just had to personify every little thing that I could ever want in a woman. You were that perfect combination of beauty, brains, and class that most men dream about, but never find. And like a dog chasing after a car, most men wouldn't even know what to do with one if they had one.

Time rolled forward and I tried coping the best that I could. Years of awkward childhood and general contempt for just about everyone and everything trained myself in techniques I could use to hide myself. I would bury myself in a book, or sit in front of the TV with a video game. The times were I had to communicate with others were wrought with sarcasm that masqueraded that polite discourse. Jokes were a common staple too. Honestly, the best way to hide isn't to be silent. People are suspicious of introverts' they'll try to draw you into conversations because they fail to realize that being quiet is not a fucking disease. Rather, just be loud enough so that people know you exist but don't have any real need to engage you. It is amazing how long you can sit in a room and not divulge a single piece of information about yourself.

Luckily I had you to talk too, otherwise the isolation would have either driven me insane or caused me to blow my brains out. Not even the most solitary of people can truly stomach being totally alone. And you filled the role of my confidante. Once again, looking back, it is depressingly easy to see how I could fall for you. I often stay up wondering how someone as smart as I could not see it coming and avoid the situation. But, I doubt it would have done any good anyway, so this is just another topic in the sleepless musings of hopeless pervert.

Time marches on, as it always does. Life for me remained stagnant, which makes sense. I am the kind of guy who obsesses over everything. You seemed to move about your life normally. You had friends, dates, and all that normal shit. And I was okay with it. I always assumed that one day, I would meet someone I could be with and I would forget about my feelings for you. Imagine my surprise when I found no one who could take your place in my heart.

It wasn't supposed to work this way. There was supposed to be someone else. And you provided me with assurances that there was a woman out there for me. So why didn't I find her? I would like to think it is because women just don't find me attractive. But any sort of honest self-reflection reveals the cold, hard truth. I didn't really look. I never pursued anyone, because no one ever interested me. There was just no one that ever really stacked up to you. And that took me eight years for me to figure out.

By that time, I was moved out of home. I was wrapping up my last year of college at a state school, while you were finishing your nursing degree at home. I visited home often, as the drive was not that far and I've always enjoyed the company of my best friend. I was even able to make some new friends at school, which was a welcome change of pace. No advancement on the love front though. Hell, by now, I'd already considered the situation hopeless and immutable.

You knew. You knew there was something up with me. I tried so hard to leave you out of it. I thought you would hate me if I told you, or that you would be so freaked out that you'd never speak to me again. The worst theory was that you would tell the family. I fear neither man nor the supernatural, but what would happen if I were exposed is something that horrified me to my very core.

I internalized those feelings for the most part. I've had a lot of practice with that thus far. But love is like diarrhea. You have to let it out and any attempts to hold it in is extremely uncomfortable. And when you finally explode, everybody shuts up, the whole room starts to smell, and an unfathomably disgusting brown liquid begins to seep down you pants and stain the carpet. (I really let this metaphor get away from me, didn't I?) 

Despite this, I simply could not work up the nerve to tell you how I felt. I always imagined you would react with shock. Which is not unreasonable. But the idea of looking into your eyes and seeing contempt, for how I feel? The simple idea of that just about killed me.

The nights were worse. Terrible, actually. Before, I simply could not sleep unless I thought about you. Some of those thoughts were explicit. Most were me just fantasizing about you snuggling into me. Every single inch of our skin would be touching. From our feet, to my pelvis against the curve of your ass, to my chest pressed up against your back. This relaxed me better than any drug or anesthetic, and I would carry the fantasy into my dreams.

Some dreams were actually pleasant. Just us being together intimately, sexually or otherwise. Where we would exchange intimacies like couples do. Glances that meant nothing to no one but us. Touches that would express exactly how we felt. Often time, it was like we were alone in the world, and we didn't have to worry about the persecution of the moral elites. It was nirvana.

Most of the time, they were terrifying. Most of the time, I would confess my secret to you, and the contempt I so often feared would manifest. The looks of love I so often saw in your face would morph into hatred before my very eyes. You would tell our parents, and our brothers and sisters. Their judgment would be swift and exacting. I would be rejected so completely and utterly by the people who were supposed to care for me. And they would certainly exact their vengeance, with sticks, stones and fire. And I would have deserved it.

But it was never the family's reaction that really bothered me. I knew that they didn't really love me; I didn't need some sort of divine revelation to understand that. But your reaction? That's what I feared. Fuck everybody else; you were the only one who ever mattered. 

Do you understand the hell I went through? Are you even capable of understanding that, every day for eight miserable years, you were the only thing that brought me any measure of joy, and at the same time, you were my unassuming tormenter?

You could tell that something was killing me. And the fact that you cared would seal my fate.

I could never deny you for too long. Your begging of me to let you in only served to make me feel worse about this situation. As I went through the hacksaw, I assured you that you would not understand. You had some right to be hurt; you always understood before. But you assured me that you would understand. I believed you.

When I told you that you would hate me if you knew, you assured me that you wouldn't. Once again, I believed you. I couldn't fully deny you, so I made up a story. There was this girl at school, who I was in love with. But I couldn't ever had her. I knew that. She was to be married, and she would never throw away a good thing for someone like me. It was close enough to the truth. But something in your eyes told me that you did not believe me.

When I refused to tell you the real story, it hurt you. I remember that day vividly.

We were getting dinner, like we always did. I was going to tell you then. But little did I know, you had a confession of your own...

You were pregnant.

I was floored. I knew what it meant. You would marry Keith and have his children. Any idea of not marrying him would be drowned in the insistence of our mother. That woman wields guilt like a Thor wields a hammer.

I remember not being able to look at you. I'm sure you thought I was ashamed of you. Well shame on you for thinking that. You should know me better than that. I was not ashamed of you. I'd assumed you had already had sex by now anyway. Not that I loved the idea of another man holding you like I wanted to. But I accepted it, like so many other things I did not want to accept.

At that moment, my world shattered. Like I said, I knew you didn't feel as I did, so I never held on to that hope. But emotions are not rational. They don't listen to how your brain processes information. My heart gave a big "fuck you" to my brain and broke, when it had no right to.

And even as I lay in pieces, I provided the comfort I was expecting. I told you that you could move in with me when I went back for my final year of college. I went to your booth, and put my arms around you for what would be the last time.

...

Two weeks had passed. Everyone was still blissfully unaware of the life form growing inside of you. You, of course, were busy with Keith. I'm sure you were talking about what this meant for your relationship. Assuredly, your plans of moving to Texas were axed. After all, there would be a baby, and you would need literally the only support our family is able to provide. Helping with children. For all mom's faults, I cannot deny she is awesome with infants. She does suck with teenagers though.

It was right before the Fourth of July. The third, actually. Everyone had left to go visit family in Iowa. I stayed, because I liked the idea of being home alone for a few days. You also stayed, because you had plans with Keith. I couldn't help but grimace when I heard that. Like I said, my mind had accepted the truth, but my heart was a far behind.

I do not know what came over me. Maybe it was a lifetime of deferred suffering that finally broke me down. Really, it was only just a matter of time. Right before you left, I called you into the dining room. I asked you to sit. I still remember the look in your eyes. It felt like I was having an out of body experience, and I couldn't stop the person in control of my body from revealing my secret.

I told you. I told you that you were the woman I'd wanted for so long. There was never any woman at school. There was only you. It was always only you.

And with incredulousness in your voice, you said, "You don't love me."

That hit me hard. The truth was so abhorrent to you that you couldn't even realize its existence. You discounted my feelings and experiences the moment you heard them, even while you knew I was struggling internally for so long. I guess it is so much easier to deny the truth when it it's revealed to us. And failing that, ignoring the truth is the next available option.

Five minutes. That is about long we talked. At one point, my knees were shaking so bad you though I was going to collapse. The first time, I assured you I was fine. The second time, I took a place at the table. I couldn't look at you, so I buried my head in my hands, in sharp contrast to the horrible truth out there in the open.

Five minutes. And then you were gone with Keith. You didn't leave without me forcing you to promise to keep this between else. I was actually hopeful that things would be okay. There was no yelling or screaming. For eight years of existential crisis, things were surprisingly mellow.

We never talked about it. My attempts to reach out to you were met with refusals. You had too much to deal with at this moment. I could sense the anger in your voice. I was frustrated, but I understood this would take time.

November came, and I broke down and texted you. Essentially begging for some sort of help. Not unkindly, you made me aware that you not be able to be the person I needed you to be.

It'll be fourteen months next week, since we had that conversation. A lot has changed in fourteen months. I've graduated, and I spend just about every moment either studying for my accounting exams or thinking about you. You had your bastard, you got engaged. Next year you are to be married. I dream of getting a job far away, so I don't have to see you. Maybe it will be so far away, that I have an excuse for missing your wedding. I'm sure you would understand.

I'm writing this, in a final effort to make you understand. I want you to understand how you made me this person I am today. You know, the cynical asshole you ignore every time you visit home. The same cynical asshole who would have done anything for you.

I tried to reach out to you so many times. And you let it known that you didn't give a single. Flying. Fuck. Or not enough to overlook the uncomfortableness of the situation and realize that your brother was dying inside.

I want you to understand why I hid from everybody. Out of fear or some reprisal that I thought I deserved. But what crime did I really commit? Did I ever really hurt you? Or anyone? You know, I can't help how I feel; there is no logic or reasoning here. Only emotions that I have grown to despise worse than the most evil of men. And let me state, without a doubt and for any record should it ever become relevant, I NEVER WANTED ANY OF THIS!!!

This idea that we choose who we love is asinine. I never chose this. You really think I would chose to love someone so scandalous? Who that if the world were to know of us, they would react with disgust. You know, incest carries a twenty year prison sentence. Not to mention the revulsion of generally everyone on the planet.

I want you to understand, the only thing I ever wanted. The only thing I needed, was for you to hear my confession and keep your promise. I wanted you to prove me wrong, take me in your arms, and convince me that I was not worthless. I simply wanted what you provided to me countless time before.

I want you to understand that you are a liar. I waited for fourteen months for love and assurance that you promised me. It never came, and it never will. And if you try to provide such assurances after reading this, I will know they are the words of a liar. You words are worth less than dirt.

You are just like the rest of them. You only love me because of some sort of perceived bullshit obligation, and only when it's convenient. As soon as it become inconvenient, I was like a fucking leper to you. When the jokes ended and I stood before you as an honest man, you refused to be there for me.

And now, there is one last thing I want you to understand. Now, fourteen months later, you are finally right. I don't love you. 

Sincerely,

John