My mother always told me to take care of my brother, and this I tried; I let him have his way much of the time, and played with him when invited to play with others. I was his best friend, simply because of the fact that he had no friends. I tried to change this one day, when mom was at the shop; inviting my friend Timothy over to play cowboys in our yard, thinking this would help introduce my brother to the “outside world” and make him friends. At about ten in the morning, the day of, our bell rang. I darted from the den, where my brother and I were watching westerns, no doubt, up the slender staircase and opened the door to see a thin boy with black hair, smiling as he moved his hands down to a giant belt buckle with a cow skull on it, surely bragging. I payed no mind to this though, ignorance had been something I’d mastered, having to consistently back down in fights with my brother, at the discretion of my mom. “Hey Timmo!” We all had nicknames at school. “Hey Art, how are ya today, part-ner?” Slyly saying the last part, hands on his buckle, a useless attempt to get me started on it again. “Can you wait ’round back while I get my brother?” “Sure. Never knew you had a brother though- how come you never told me you had a brother?” I stood for a second like a deer in the headlights. “Guess it never came up.” I lied. “Oh… Guess not! I’ll see ya ’round back then.”
Timothy started off to the yard, and I ran through the house, slamming the front door behind me, back down the stairs and into the den, where my brother was furiously yelling at the television, “Cowboy! Cowboy! Cowboy!” I looked at the screen as the end credits scrolled up, stepped forward and shut it off. “Au-thor, no cowboy.” He was confused, which had been the case at the end of every show. “It’s over.” I told him in a nervous voice; knowing that him crying and whining would be the result, “Do you wanna play cowboys in the yard, with friends? You can use the revolver!” I saved the day before a tear could drop, and in less than a few seconds, he was ready, in full cowboy attire. We walked out of the den and up the stairs, into our small green kitchen; an aroma of the mornings breakfast was nothing to us, as we now galloped to the door knocking into chairs, once cleanly tucked under the table and burst out the door, nearly ripping it off hinge. Our yard, rather large in size, was decorated with the greenest of bushes and trees; a humongous garden stood on the right hand side, where mother had grown a rainbow of different flowers. None of this mattered to my brother or me; it was the back where me and my brother had played most of the time, where we had constructed our own little western base out of scrap boards from the garage. “Timmo!?” I called out, not seeing my friend anywhere. “Tee-mo!” My brother mimicked, unknowingly calling for my friend. I continued to search, my brother at the heel of my shoes, his every breath hitting the back of my neck. “BANG! BANG! BANG!” Timothy shot up from behind one of the larger bushes, startling me a bit, but my brother was now screaming in tears. “Bad! Bad! No friend! No!” “What the hell!?” Timothy covered his ears, from my brothers squealing and sobs. “This is my brother Georgie. He doesn’t like to be spooked, he’s… Different.” I lingered my words, rubbing my brothers back, in attempt to calm him down. “He’s different!?” Timothy continued to hold his hands over his ears, uselessly, “He’s a retard, that’s the difference!” “Shut up!” I felt my face turn red and blood boil over quickly, I hated when people would talk like that, using that word, making fun of my brother. “Got a nickname for him, do ya? Cause cry baby ‘tard may be a tad long; won’t it!?” A bell must have sounded, and before I knew it I had already swung around and hit Timothy square on the lip, blood slowly ran from his mouth, “Yo-” He jumped on me and the two of us started rolling on the ground, occasionally hitting our heads, bumping knees on near by branches and twigs.Yet, the next thing I knew I was alone, and Georgie now sat atop Timothy, beating him with his toy revolver, smashing his nose, and cracking his jaw; there was blood all over Timothy’s face, Georgie’s clothes, and the revolver. I let this beating go on for a bit letting Georgie get his revenge; finally, I stepped in, putting my hand on Georgie’s shoulder, he turned ready to swing, stopping himself just before unleashing his fist. “Au-thur okay?” He breathed heavily. “Yes,” I replied, “Georgie okay?” “Yes.” “Want to go watch cowboys?” “Yes.”
