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When the Lady of the house is present, we really are both very good boys. We crawl and writhe and suffer so prettily for her. We take our turns crying, and putting our mouths where she says we must. We offer our worship as a sacrifice on her altar, hold up our trembling, bleeding hearts with mewling gratitude on our lips.
But sometimes, the Lady has to leave to do important things. And since Lamb is bigger than me, he always gets to be in charge.
“Be good,” she says before she goes. “I don't want to come home to bickering pets.”
We both nod solemnly because we really are good boys. But then she shoots me a knowing look, and I think it's not fair because I never start it, but somehow it's always my fault. And then Lamb shoots me a look too, and it's really not fair because he's already smirking and she just lets him.
“Yes, Ma'am,” I tell her, looking down at the floor miserably, because there's no use arguing the point. At least she tells me I'm a good boy before she goes, because she's never happy with me when she comes home.
“Use your power wisely,” she tells Lamb. And he says Yes, Ma'am too, but he's lying, and I know he'll do no such thing.
When she's gone, I go to play on the computer and try to be quiet so Lamb finds something better to do. For a while, I think it almost works. He's off somewhere else, entertaining himself, doing whatever big brothers do. But then he must get bored because he comes to find me.
“What are you playing?” He asks, even though he can see the screen.
“Minecraft,” I tell him. It's better not to start a fight.
“You're not very good at it,” he says, and I already feel like I'm going to cry. He's not supposed to be mean to me, she tells him that all the time, but he never listens when I remind him of it myself.
I say nothing, but I know he's watching when I pull my legs a little tighter to my torso, when the quiver of a frown tugs across my lip. I try to pretend to be unbothered, but I know he can see my hands tremble when he leans on the back of my chair.
His fingers stroke the dusting of hair at the back of my neck. I'm so sensitive there and it's getting hard to see through the veil of tears that gather in my eyes. I wonder if he can tell that I'm not really playing anymore, I'm just pushing buttons to look busy in case he gets bored and decides to leave me alone.
“You shouldn't even be playing that,” he announces, with the unceremonious certainty of a boy who's allowed to make all the rules. He moves his hand to the hair at the top of my scalp and pulls my head back to make me look at him. “You're too little for that game.”
I yelp, because it hurts my head. And I want to shout at him, but I'm scared to – he has that look in his eyes again.
“I'm not!” I try to tell him, but the words come out in such a small whine that neither of us are very convinced.
He pulls my chair away from the desk and spins it so I'm facing him. My fingers grip the armrests so tightly that my knuckles start go white.
“You're too little,” he says again, and he's got that scary sound in his voice, like he's starting to really want to hurt me. “Stupid, little puppy boy,” he taunts. He closes in on me as he speaks, leaning over me so I'm pressed into the back of the chair, and I'm whimpering already. I hate how fast I start to whimper.
I open my mouth to tell him I'm not. I'm not stupid, and he's not supposed to call me that. But the look on his face scares me, and nothing comes out of my mouth. I wish the Lady was here. She'd defend me. He always has to apologize when he says mean things to me in front of her.
“What's the matter, puppy? Too little to even talk?” He sounds so mean, and he's so eager about it too. He has that smile on his face like he's having a whole lot of fun. It's really not fair. I would start to cry, but I promised myself I wouldn't give in this time.
“Too little to play games. Too little to say words…” He pauses, and sneers, because he knows he's about to hurt me. “Too little to be a real dog.”
That hurts. I know he can see it when the pain lands in my eyes because he laughs at me. He knows how much I like it when I get to be a dog.
“Just a little puppy,” he taunts, and his hand is on my shirt, playing with my collar. He runs his hand across my chest, and slides up to stroke the side of my neck. “You're not even allowed to look after yourself, puppy. I have to be here to take care of you.”
His hands are on my buttons, already pulling some of them open, and I'm sniffling now. My lip quivers, tears glistening in pools under my eyes. He's not supposed to touch me like that without permission, but there's no one here to stop him.
“Say thank you, little puppy. Say ‘thank you, Lamb, for being such a good big brother.’” His hand is sliding under my shirt now – past the open collar, under the neckline of my undershirt, beneath the strap of my bra – until he can feel my naked shoulder, and tease his fingers along my neck.
It's not fair.
“Thank you, Lamb,” I mumble, and he pinches me. Hard.
“Thank you for what, puppy?” He asks with a sneer.
My throat hurts from trying so hard not to cry, and when I speak, my voice begins to break. “Thank you for being such a good big brother, Lamb.” I hate how miserable and teary I sound.
He laughs, and he sounds so cruel instead of happy, and he just keeps pinching and squeezing my skin.
“Such a good dog, little puppy,” he taunts in a mocking tone. “That's what you like, right, puppy? You like to be a good dog?”
There's nothing I can say, I'm just crying now, and I know he's going to get his way.
He pulls his hand out from under my shirt and tugs me by the lapel.
“Get up, baby puppy. Get on your knees.” I don't even try to fight him, I just stumble out of the chair and onto the floor, my face a mess of tears.
He kicks me in the stomach, and it's not hard, it doesn't even hurt, but it's enough to make me double over because it's just so mean. He just pulls me upright by the hair and starts to slap my face.
“This is your fault, little puppy,” he tells me. It's hard to hear him over the smack of his hand against my cheek, but he's nice enough to say it loudly so I can make out every word. “If you weren't such a baby, I wouldn't have to hurt you.”
I want to yell at him that he doesn't make any sense, but he's hitting me still and I can't stop crying.
“I'm helping you though,” he says with an air of absurd certainty. “I'm helping you be a better puppy.” He finally stops hitting me and my cheek feels sore from his hand. “You like being a good puppy, right? You like playing puppy games?”
I know the question is a trap. His questions are always a trap.
“I don't want to play puppy games,” I tell him. My voice is just a sob now. “I want to play Minecraft!” I hate how babyish I sound. I hate how babyish I feel. It's not fair that he always gets to be in charge.
“Well, I want to play puppy games,” he announces, and pulls my hair again. There's not enough on top for him to get a good grip, so his hand slips, but it's enough to make me yelp. And when his hand is gone I rub my scalp with a whimper, glaring at him with all my impotent rage.
He looks around for a minute until he finds the rubber ball, and when he picks it up he has that scary look in his eyes. “Fetch,” he says when he throws it, and his voice is a threat. But I sit stubbornly and unmoving on my knees even though I'm scared.
“I don't want to fetch, I want to play Minecraft,” I insist with a pout. He's on me before I can finish, pushing my head back, then pushing his knee into my chest. Until he's pinning me to the ground with his hand on my face and my cheek against the floor.
“If you don't want to play puppy games, we can play baby brother games instead,” he says, his voice taking a dangerously vicious tone. Now I'm really scared, and I start to cry harder, because he knows I don't like it when he does those things to me, but that never stops him from doing it anyway. I don't want him to do it, and I know that he will, so I cry like a baby and beg for him to stop.
“Wait! I'll do it!” I sob. “I'll fetch.” But he's not done with me yet.
“Say sorry,” he insists, shoving harder on my cheek and making my face hurt from grinding against the floor.
“I'm sorry!” I tell him, and I really, really am. I'm sorry I tried to avoid him. I'm sorry that I said no. I'm sorry I picked a fight. “Thank you for being such a good big brother,” I add, because I'll say anything to make him stop.
He snickers at me, but climbs off, grinning madly with cruel victory in his eyes. “Okay, baby brother,” he says, in a voice dripping with malice. “Go be a puppy and fetch.”
He's on his knees now too. I could fight him. I could launch myself at him and bite and claw. Sometimes when we fight for the Lady I even almost win. But not when it's just me and him. Not when he's like this, and I am crying on the floor. So I don't even look at him, I try to ignore the capricious grin on his face, and crawl after the ball like a baby.
I bring it to him in my mouth, and look miserably at the floor while he takes it from me. He pats my head condescendingly and says, “See? Even a stupid baby puppy can be a good dog.”
“You're being mean!” I tell him, and I hate how much it sounds like a babyish whine. It's louder than I meant for it to be too, and of course that's when the Lady comes home.
I hear her heels clicking down the hallway, and I dissolve into tears again. It's not fair. She always comes home at the worst time.
She's standing in the doorway, and I can picture the stern look on her face even with my eyes on the floor.
“Hi Ma'am,” Lamb chirps brightly, and he scrambles to go sit at her feet. I sit where I am, crying, and she tsks at me before stroking Lamb’s hair.
“Why is your brother crying, Lamb?” The Lady asks, and he glances at me with a shrug.
“They didn't want to play with me, I guess. But I was just trying to be nice.”
She calls him a good boy and it just makes me cry harder because I know I'm not allowed to say it's not true.
“Come here, puppy,” she says, and she sounds so disappointed already. “Say thank you to Lamb for babysitting. And don't be so ungrateful about it, pup, he's only trying to play.”