The Axe

The Axe

            I was outside in my luscious green backyard that my mom tended to every weekend. Being more of my mother’s child, I wanted to be like her, so I helped tend to our small backyard that Saturday. The sun was shining—there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. Palm trees placed on every side with the light shining through—the typical California picture. The lackluster, gray, classic tool shed stood up against the house atop the rocks next to the crisp mowed lawn. Located inside: a rake, multiple shovels (handheld ones and large heavy ones), a couple buckets, two saws, some plant food, and gardening gloves. My mom had been cutting down trees and large leaves, so the axe and long leaf cutter were lying in the grass. They laid there in a sad manner—it looked as if they had realized that people only use them when they don’t have enough strength to do things with their own hands. They were always glad to help, but never glad to be thrown around, being whacked on trees or being thrown to the ground.

            Justin joined us. He, my brother, didn’t have a good look on his face. A look of frustration and annoyance took over his face. No smile, no light in his eyes, not even a cute scrunch of the nose. This hadn’t been unfamiliar to me.

Bipolar.

When I first heard this word, I (an adolescent) had no idea what it meant. After multiple anger outbreaks at home from my brother and multiple family meetings later, I understood how bipolar kids act. My childhood was filled with watching a screaming, high tempered brother who hit everything he touched. I was eighteen months younger than him but acted eighteen months older than him. It was my life and it was my story.

Slam.

His door would shut.

Screams from inside his room, “I hate everyone. It’s not my fault.”

Bang.

He punched the wall thinking he would get his anger out, but it only resulted in red, later black and blue, knuckles. I deemed myself the normal child, but it came with great responsibility.

            Something my mother taught me since a young age was to always clean up after you make a mess, leaving it better than it was. I, being my mother’s “mini me” was doing exactly that when my brother came out and joined us. Trying to be kind I asked, “Justin, what’s wrong? Can I help you with anything.” No response. He just grunted over and over again. Trying to ignore the situation (which usually helped), I kept gathering the dead leaves and tossing them into the trashcan, attempting to make a three pointer.

I swear this only happens in movies, but no. This was happening in real life before my very own wide opened eyes. His body bent over, his hand dropped to the ground, and his fingered griped the handle of the axe. What is he doing? Why is he picking that up? Should I run? As I said each word slowly, I was being backed into the fence. “Justin.” One step back. “Put.” One more step back. “That.” One more step back. “Down.” My hands were in front of me acting as my shield (like that would do anything) and my back finally hit the fence. I am going to die. What is going to happen to me? My life flashed before my eyes. I remembered winning my first horse show, bringing our first puppy home, and even that morning of cooking a delicious breakfast including cheesy eggs and perfectly burned bacon with my family. All I could think of to say, while tears were flowing down my face faster than Niagara Falls, was, “Justin, please stop. Please put that down. What are you doing?”

Mom walked around the corner and immediately grabbed the axe out of his hands. I ran inside, trying to get the farthest distance away from him. Running into my dad, I grabbed him tightly and told him that Justin just had an axe in his hand, pinning me to the fence. His response, “Oh.”