When I think of him

by mayllon

When I think of him, I don’t remember him as the violent person he grew to be, or how we all became afraid of. I don’t remember  how he used to call me names. I don’t remember how he ignored me when, one day, I asked him to defend me of some bullies at school.
I don’t remember him mocking me because he was older and ahead in school. Nor his vague explanations when my parents found white powder in his wallet.  I don’t remember his anger nor his threats.

When I think of him, I remember him as a sleepy kid, letting me into his bed late one winter night after I woke him up, snuggling me and whispering into my ear so that I wouldn’t be scared of the thundering storm outside.