The Brother Who Carried All the Pain

 

The Brother Who Carried All the Pain

The second child arrived before her heart could mend,

Too soon the pain of birth returned she could not fend.

She had not wished another burden at her side,

Her patience worn, her tender feelings pushed aside.

Had fate instead delivered a daughter soft and mild,

Her heart might warm—but not for this unwanted child.

 

Her firstborn son remained the jewel within her sight,

The sun around which turned her small domestic light.

Her praise and fond affection shaped his growing days,

She crowned his smallest deeds with undeserving praise.

In whispered words she fed the pride within his ear,

And sowed the seeds of self that flourished year by year.

 

The younger brother, drifting somewhere out of view,

Received the colder glance as her indifference grew.

No gentle bond had formed between them from the start,

A quiet frost had settled deep within her heart.

And so, the elder learned, when mother was away,

His smaller brother made a harmless game to play.

 

He learned her moods, the weather of her troubled mind,

That tears and noise would make her sharp, impatient, blind.

So, when she turned away, beyond her watchful sight,

His little brother felt the brunt of childish spite.

A shove, a slap, a blow delivered quick and sly—

And if the baby cried, the elder would deny.

 

Too young to speak, the little one could only weep,

His mother’s iciness unfelt, but certain, firm, and deep.

Then one day, a four-by-two, with rusty nail sticking out,

Struck down upon his infant head, with a massive clout.

The blood ran red—no lie could hide the awful mark,

And truth stood naked in the sudden, dreadful stark.

 

The firstborn’s punishment that day, was sharp but brief,

Yet sharper still a sinister lesson whispered underneath:

That tears and tales could bend his mother to his will,

And she would strike the smaller brother standing still.

From then he learned the cruel advantage of the game—

To cry for help… and let his mother deal the blame.

 

Each day the malignant tumor in her mind increased

Spreading within her frontal lobe, in its solemn feast

In place of warmth, coldness setting in, taking control,

Consuming any decency, leaving behind a bitter soul.

The monster inside building pressure, setting the stage,

Inherent festering, boiling away, craving to vent rage.

Restlessly waiting for a trivial incident, an itchy finger,

A tiny yelp or howl, shriek, or scream, to pull the trigger.

And vent the steam that had gone well past boiling point,

The misery of daily tasks that set her mind out of joint.

So, when the cloud of madness set in, when she was riled,

She believed that it was not a crime, to spank her child.

Yes, to beat a part of her, to beat him hard with a stick!

To drag him by the hair, like a rag doll, her mind so sick

For love of hate, the sadistic mum, her pleasure in pain,

So condescending, full of disparagement and disdain.

The cut of criticism upon her breath when she was wild,

Out came her demons, spare the rod and spoil the child.

 

The awful wound upon his head became a painful score,

Infected bone that left him weak and grew into more.

Long weeks in wards where silent suffering filled the air,

While mother’s patience thinned, and little brother’s care.

The blow that split his scalp did more than flesh divide—

It clouded thought and left confusion deep inside.

 

And from that day a pounding ache would haunt his head,

A constant drum of pain, that followed where he went.

At times it swelled to storms of blinding, crushing might,

The cruel affliction men would later call migraine’s bite.

Yet, when he spoke, of pain, she brushed his words aside—

“It is only in your head!” was what his mother cried.

 

At school lessons learned came slow and hard to bear,

For words and numbers tangled in a stubborn snare.

His restless mind could scarcely hold the thoughts in line,

And pain would bloom within his bones with cruel design.

The fibers of agony through weary muscles wound—

A body made to constant ache, a spirit tightly bound.

 

And years went on, two younger brothers joined the fold,

Their eager minds still soft, impressionable, and controlled.

The firstborn taught them well the cunning tricks he knew,

How tears and tales could bend their mother’s judgment too.

And soon the smallest brothers found the pattern plain—

Three voices now would rise to cast on him the blame.

 

At school the whispers spread beyond the household door,

Where elder brother’s friends joined in the cruel uproar.

He showed them well the art of shifting fault away,

And pointing fingers where the weakest child would stay.

So down the years the second born bore the shame,

Caught in the spiral of a cruel and crooked game.

 

So, pity then the wounded child who bore the brunt of pain?

He never called for pity, for all he felt was storm and strain.

His mind and body struggled hard yet fought it all in vain,

The scars of youth ran deeper than the eye could see,

A life bent low beneath cruel circumstance to be.

His muscles bound so tightly, resting brought no ease,

And exercise only worsened the torment to seize.

Yet those who shaped the hurt walked on without a care—

For hearts that lack all empathy feel nothing there.

 

So, spare a thought for him whose childhood bore the cost,

Whose fragile hopes in bitter circumstance were lost.

The wounds he carried none could truly understand,

Save those who feel the sorrow written by this hand.

But they who dealt the blows walked on as though it is right—

For souls without compassion cannot see the light.

 

For truth may whisper softly through all the years gone by,

But deaf are those whose hearts never felt the reason why.

And so, the brothers hid behind their mother’s apron strings,

Spinning dreadful lies and plotting more of petty things.

Yet penance is patient, and age erodes the grime,

Time deals its hand slowly; rough justice waits in line.

The second born observed the world, its dangerous play,

Where shadows move like players, and cards can shift the day.

A life of careful watching, learning which moves to trust,

For in the game of fate, the careless can vanish into dust.

Written By: Alan.Clark@WW1POET (March 2026)