Bashir was waiting for me when I got home, alone and battered on our front porch, absentmindedly playing with the hem of his shirt. No longer did a sophomoric aura surround him. No longer did an innocence of a child line his eyes.

His usually bright, lively, and energetic brown eyes lost their color, a dull shade of maple with no shine or luster of happiness. It was a dark, foreboding gaze, the eyes of a preteen who had seen far too much, far too many horrors, the eyes of a physically broken and emotionally damaged young boy.

I had done this to him.

My slow footsteps broke him from his train of thoughts, empty eyes meeting mine.

"Cold out, isn't it?" I asked, holding my suit jacket across my shoulders. My sleeves were rolled to my elbows from a tiring day at work, body too enervated to even move, but for the sake of my brother, I kept standing.

He nodded.

I looked around. The sun already set, past Maghrib (sunset) prayer, and entering the calming peace of a starry night sky, one with endless horizons and dazzling dreams. The darkened skies emulated the calm after a storm, the quiet after a war just like the night I ran away with Bashir.

After all these years, the dulling ache never left.

Silence stretched between us, tension a figment of heartbreak above our heads like a target that the media constantly probed. They were the hawks. We were the preys. The outside world fed off our misery, fed off our desperation. They didn't understand. They didn't care.

Bashir and I were a story, a news sensation to America. As sons from a shattered family in Turkey, we were the epitome of statistics, a science experiment to society where the conclusion led to our destruction.

Bashir's soft voice cut like blades. "Why did you hide it?" he asked, averting his gaze. "Why did you shelter me all these years?"

I sighed, taking the seat beside him. "I... I had to, Bashir."

His shoulders shook and his eyes welled with more tears, streaking his cheeks with his sorrows. "N-No," he shuddered. "You didn't. Y-You chose to, Ibrahim. You had the choice, but you didn't."

What is this feeling?

Instinctively, my hand clawed at my chest, an attempt to soothe the pain that crackled against my skin, prickling me with guilt. My heart twisted, suffocating my bloodstream with its irregularity. Hearing his small, disappointed voice did things to me, annihilated his image of me as his hero.

Mentally, Bashir shredded our memories, shredded that perfection he painted me to me. My scandal caused his wounds. My scandal tormented him day and night. My scandal scorched the essence of his livelihood.

It was all me. My fault, I thought, my own fucking fault.

Tasneem's phone call earlier came to mind, her soothing words as if she anticipated this from us.

"Don't be afraid to show him that you're vulnerable. Tell him the truth. No more secrets, Ibrahim. It's time to heal and move on."

I kept Bashir at a distance from his past, refused to let him know anything about our family overseas, and forbade him from ever questioning my decisions regarding his childhood. Bashir was sheltered from the evil that lurked Istanbul that night, hidden from the monster that was birthed.

My hands stained themselves in the blood of our parents. Bashir's were not. They were pure, clean, and innocent of all trauma. I kept him that way for years, but that wasn't the right decision. It never was.

Allah, I just wanted to save him. I didn't mean to hurt Bashir.

It felt as if the weight of the world rested against my shoulders, like the burden of our past leeched onto my every breath, haunted my every step. My past chained around my ankles, allowing me to drag those memories along with me during every waking hour.

I didn't want that for Bashir. I couldn't live with myself if he felt my horrors.

Bashir shuffled beside me, turning to gaze at me with his teary eyes. The heartbreak was evident, imprisoning my lonely soul with guilt. "What happened that night?" he asked in a small voice, almost afraid of my answer.

My features darkened. "Our parents didn't just die, Bashir. They were murdered. They died to a man who swore to stick by their side, who promised to follow the path of Allah, who gave an oath to our father."

"I know they were murdered."

I gave him a sad smile. "And I hoped that was all you would ever know."

"Why?" he questioned, hurt sketching his visage. "Did you think I couldn't handle the truth of my parents' murderer. That I couldn't be normal like other children because I don't have parents?"

"Bashir," I sighed, shaking my head. "That wasn't what I thought at all. You are strong enough to handle anything in your life, no matter the obstacles, no matter the suffering. You are strong."

"Then why did you hide it? Why couldn't we visit Turkey all these years?"

"Because I... I couldn't face him."

"Who?" he emphasized like he was eagerly awaiting a conclusion to our twisted tale.

"Our uncle," I said, voice barely above a whisper. My eyes squeezed shut as my next words ricocheted along my nerves as if someone played the broken tune to my heartstrings, to my burdens. "He killed our parents in cold blood. He was the man who plunged a knife into Dad right in front of me. He was the one who tortured and killed Mom."

His small gasp made me open my eyes. In front of me sat a scared little boy with eyes that glazed in a river of tears, streaming down his flushed cheeks. Bashir's breaths came out unevenly, quivering with the ballast of truth I had launched at him.

As if on instinct, I wrapped my arms around him, resting my chin on the top of his head. Bashir leaned against me, unable to hold himself straight after the initial shock. My grandparents and I only told him that our parents passed away when he was young due to politics. His feeble physical state dissipated more as he began to puzzle the missing pieces of our life in Turkey.

"H-He killed them?" he sobbed into my chest. "Why, Ibrahim? Why did he take my p-parents?"

My chest tightened, my breath catching in my throat, but I swallowed down my inhibited fears. Although the demons of my past sunk its teeth back into my memories, I refused to sit idly in my blood again. I refused to submit to my darkness.

"He wasn't a good person, Bashir," I whispered as I stroked his hair in the soothing manner that Tasneem always did for me. "Our father was a great military general, vigilant and determined through all trials. He was loyal to his country, his people, and his leaders. Our uncle was not like that.

"Our uncle wanted more from life. He was blinded by greed and power as other countries around Turkey usurped their government. A revolution was rumored in the streets, and our uncle slowly marked those who refused the opposition. He only needed a spark to ignite the flame, and the domino effect would start, but our father refused to use the military as a weapon for his quest to power."

Bashir gripped my torso tighter. "So... he killed him," he finished quietly.

"Yeah."

"Is he still alive?"

"I don't know," I said, voice barely above a whisper.

As if the weight of the world had finally crushed upon his shoulders, his tears escaped the safe crooks of his eyes, filtering his emotions from years of long silence. After being kept in the dark, a new light entered his lonesome mind, an uncovered part of his past.

His shoulders shook with each heaving breath. His eyes leaked with every ambivalent thought. His lips trembled with each tremor of sorrow. This was a necessary part of healing. This was what Bashir needed, a shoulder to cry on, a brother to lean on, and a friend to rely on.

"I swore to protect you when you were born," I whispered into the brisling rustle of leaves and wind, nature's own qualm at our parents' cruel fate. "That's why I kept this from you. I didn't want the Tarkan family name to be tarnished in your innocent mind. I didn't want you to think of me like our uncle."

He sniffled, pulling back and staring up into my eyes with lucid eyes of amber like the rain on an autumn day. "Why w-would you ever think that, Ibrahim?" he asked, voice cracking at the mere thought. Bashir viciously rubbed at his eyes. "You've always been there for me, no matter the time, no matter the weather. You and our grandparents never let me think that I was a-alone. How could I hate you?"

"I was afraid, Bashir," I said softly. "I already lost our parents. If I told you the truth, a harsh reality would be exposed to you far too early into your life."

Bashir's eyes trailed to the pale scars that marred my arms, the ragged memory of a knife slipping under my skin. "Did he," he swallowed painfully, "do that to you?"

I mutely nodded.

His eyes met mine again, shattering like glass before me. "W-Why?" he stuttered, appalled by a man's malicious nature and inability to enact compassion towards those who shared the same blood.

A sad, weary smile touched my lips, tears forming like raindrops of a bitter season. "It was either this," I gestured to my arms, "or let you get killed. Our grandparents were in America. They wouldn't have gotten there in time, so I had to make a choice to save you."

"You went through all this for me?" choked Bashir over his own words.

"I did."

"And you suffered at the hands of our own relatives? Did Grandpa and Grandma know?"

"They were alerted by some of our father's friends, but a plane ride to America isn't quick traveling. Grandpa was trying to get his small business started in America. The second he heard, he used all his savings to get the quickest ticket, yet it wasn't fast enough," I said, eyes darkening with a fog of gloom. "Sacrifices had to be made to ensure your safety."

"You were only a teenager!"

"But I was your brother," I interrupted. "Our parents left you in my care, and I wouldn't go back on my responsibility even if grief etched my path."

"You let yourself be tortured for... me?"

I nodded.

Suddenly, Bashir jumped into my arms, clinging to my neck like when I first heard his cries on that terrible night. His tears continued to spill, breaths coming in short hiccups as an overwhelming emotion possessed his mind, body, and soul. I held him close.

"It's okay," I murmured into his nest of wild, black hair, untamed and free of restraints. "I'm here. It's all going to be okay."

"I-I know," he sniffled, "because I always feel safe with you."

"You do?"

"You're my hero, Ibrahim," whispered Bashir in a breath as soft as the warm atmosphere that engulfed us in a blanket of brotherhood. "You protected me all these years. I-I'm sorry I couldn't fight back the bullies. I'm sorry I make you worry. I-"

"Hey," I cut him off sharply as I pulled away from our embrace. "Don't you ever feel sorry. None of this is your fault, and it never was. If anyone should be sorry, it's me for keeping this burden from you."

"But the bullies-"

"They don't know shit about our lives. No one except our family does."

Bashir stayed silent for a moment, eyes scanning the crevices of my face as if searching for the answers to his unanswered questions, to satisfy his intellectual curiosity about his personal life, to fill the gaps in his memory.

The hum of night strummed its strings against the faint breeze of sanguine serenity, a peace among the clamored thoughts that echoed between us and into the distance. Past the horizon laid an untold future, a new beginning, yet for the night Bashir and I clung to our past. We held onto it because without a past, there was no present of future. Without our past, we could not heal.

Tonight was about healing. It was time to move on.

Starry eyes met cloudy skies, soft lips touched dry air, and tears disseminated into a bittersweet world. My heart lurched in my chest as I thought about Bashir's bullying incident. Anger flared, curtailing the previous peace I felt. Those boys would pay, I thought with distaste.

"Ibrahim, what do we do now?" asked the innocent, boyish voice beside me.

My head snapped back to my little brother. "Well," I started, remembering my deen (religion) in a time of calamity, "we should turn to Allah first. We were given this trial for a reason. Allah knows us better than we know ourselves, so this difficulty you feel right now, remember that it's only temporary. Our struggles are part of a larger plan, Allah's plan."

"Even though it's temporary, it still hurts."

"I know," I said softly. "But remember that this dunya (world) is not permanent. Many Americans don't understand that, and they find comfort in materialistic ways when they should be referring to Allah and His words. That relationship we build with our Creator helps us grieve our sadness to Him and relieve our stress."

"So, what about the bullies?"

"I'm going to talk to your school. This isn't a regular bullying incident. They physically caused harm in addition to verbal abuse," I frowned. "I'll put a stop to this, Bashir."

Silently, Bashir leaned his head against my shoulder, hugging his legs to his chest as we watched our city sleep, hidden by a veil of darkness and a coat of secrets. Illuminating lights flickered shut across the street, blinds concealing a house privy to its own past and present.

Haunted memories of our parents touched the back of my eyes, tempting me with a sadness to taint my soul for a thousand nights. No amount of torture equated to the longing I felt for my beloved parents.

"I wish I knew them," whispered Bashir. "I wish I could stay in my mother's arms long enough to remember her or hear my father's voice long enough to memorize it."

My heart squeezed at his words. "I wish they were here too," I said, "but that wasn't Allah's plan."

"I know, and I trust Allah. As hard as it is, I know it was for the best."

As the inky realm of Baltimore stretched, our bodies stayed inert on our porch, lost in the swimming madness of our inhibitions and fears, of our doubts and sensibility. The hurt would never cease, the wounds would never heal, but we could stitch them together with our belief in Allah. It united us in the darkest times of our lives and the brightest.

Soon, my voice told the small, light-hearted stories of a Turkish man and woman who fell in love at first sight. The product of their love was two strong-willed boys. Bashir and Ibrahim. Our parents. Our past.