Bro had taken you in when you were very young. Was he fit to raise a child? Absolutely not. But he was all you had, so you just went with it.

He was as compassionate as an aggressive, immature, barely functioning alcoholic could be. But when you came out to him, he flipped a switch. He was still awful to you, but he obviously preferred having a son to having a daughter.

He promised to make you a man—mostly so that he'd have something to play with—and you were eternally grateful.

You convinced yourself to just turn a blind eye to his abuse because Bro encouraged you and your new identity. He told you what boys did, how they were supposed to dress and act. According to him, boys loved men. Boys kissed men. In fact, it was one of the most masculine thing a guy could do. Second only to letting men beat you bloody, of course.

Bro's idea of fun consisted of driving you out to some empty lot and absolutely kicking your ass until you begged for mercy. And then taking you out for pizza, or something.

It was one of those days. He woke you up at the crack of dawn, took you to the parking lot, and slammed you into the concrete so many times that you were surprised you didn't have brain damage. Bro put his foot on your chest, his heavy boot knocking out whatever wind was left in you. He unsheathed his katana, pointing it at you.

And then he started laughing.

The bastard started laughing. You just sort of…laid there, bruised and bloodied, while he laughed.

When his laughter finally died down, he looked down at you through his shades. "Gods, look at you," Bro chuckles. "You're pathetic, kid."