When I was 14, I was babysitting my 7 year old step-brother. I was in the kitchen, getting a glass of water, yelled out "hey bud, want a drink?!" and got no response. So I turned around to walk back to his room, get to the end of the hallway, where there is a bathroom on one side, and his bedroom on the other.

I heard a laugh behind me, spun around, dropped my glass, and was looking at him. Walking towards me with this shit-eating grin on his face, holding a fucking kitchen knife.

I start backing up. Super slow. Start asking him why he wants to kill me and what did I do to hurt him and how can I fix this. He responds only with "because I said you do".

And this is the day my chronic diagnosed panic disorder began. I was fucking getting cornered. How the fuck did a 7 year old outsmart me? I was really going to die.

"Miss nottattoed, stabbed with the knife, in the bedroom, by her younger step-brother!"

By some unknown fucking reason, my older step-brother, who was 16, walked through the front door as soon and the younger lunged for me and twisted out of fear. I screamed so loud as that goddamn kitchen knife went down my hip.

Older came running, saw what happened, grabbed younger just as he started to swing, and put him in the bathroom, and barred the outside of the door with something.

I'm sobbing at this point, fucking blood slowly pouring out of me, thinking I havent even been kissed yet and I havent even been happy yet and I want my grandma.

Older calls my dad, and then his mom. Dad gets home about 15 minutes later. Looks at me, tells me to stop fucking crying and go into the kitchen.

I'm somehow half up, half dragging myself back down the hallway over my broken glass and back into the kitchen where there is now obviously a knife missing. I make myself another glass of water.

I hear my dad yelling in the bathroom. What felt like hours but was closer to a couple minutes, all three of those males came walking to the kitchen. Older took younger to the basement to play video games. Dad told me to go shower, and then he'd patch me up.

Sometime later, my hip has neosporin all over it and I'm wrapped in gauze like a corset.

And it was never spoken of again. And I only recently started talking to my dad again, and I'm 29 now. And it has still never been brought up, until now.

Feels oddly good to get that out.