My big brother never wanted anything to do with me. The seven-year age gap a deep, dry canyon in summer heat, perilous to cross.

He scared me. Violent rages of a hurting teenager. A corded telephone ripped from the wall. Drywall punched through.

One day, out of the blue, he asked, “You want to watch a movie with me?” I nearly levitated off the ground from the upswell of hope. The feeling evaporated and the soles of my feet stayed flat on solid ground. He had done this before.

The opening credits scrolled with the volume low. Peripheral motion caught my eye from the other side of the couch. The television flashed a glint of light off the glossy, black barrel of our father’s Colt 1911 pistol.

Only twelve years old and I thought to myself, I’m done with this shit. I was prepared this time.

I slid my 25-inch, metal alloy Louisville Slugger out from underneath the fleece blanket. I white-knuckled the black, tacky handle and swung as hard as I could.

Crack. My brother’s head caved in, a red splatter on the beige carpet. A shallow, crimson pool formed, then stilled.