Do you remember when we were merely children whose minds were clean from the troubles of the world and we held onto our mother's arm when we were in need of comfort.

No, that never really did happen, did it?

We knew of trouble; we saw the news reports that my father watched while he thought we were playing. The talked about the rape of an eighteen-year-old boy and showed the scars left on his bruised body. They mentioned the suicide of an old women; she took five different bottles of pills and drank three bottles of Jack Daniels before dying in her home at 5am. Her body found a week later after a neighbor reported an odd smell from her room.

They constantly showed the death of people. Neither children or adults were spared from being trapped in the screen. But what made us afraid was the people who put these women, men and children on the news.

Some hid their faces when they saw news reporters dashing towards them to ask question, humiliated by what they had done. Other briskly walked with annoyed expression when heard another question asked about the taboo subject. Few only had their picture on the news, saying that they were reported missing and wanted by the police.

The news resembled the burden of the unyielding reality and scathed our youth with fear. It brought terror to our lives even though those in the television screen would never meet with us. The pain we felt when we saw them should have adulterated our curiosity.

And yet, instead of going upstairs and playing with our action figures and toy guns, we silently watched the news on the steps of my house's staircase. Gasping softly when we saw the gory crime scenes and made our lips bleed as we waited to hear what would happen next from the tedious voice of the news reporter.

We observed as my father sipped his beer glumly, not even paying attention to the television's screen in front of him, but instead, inspecting the beer belly that was developing under his clothes and grumbling softly when he realized it was getting larger.

We never went to your house to watch the news. Your mother was always in the living room, her fingers touching the key board of her laptop with frustration as she struggled to master the elegance of words. Her glasses would be perched on the tip of her nose, constantly being pushed up with a single finger but always sliding back down again.

Your mother frightened me when I first met her, and it made me glad that I didn't have to see mine, but only for a while.

When I saw the tender moments you had with her, like when she would pick you up and twirl you around before saying goodnight, or congratulate you with cookies when you got another 100% on an English report, a Math examination, or a Science test. I felt the envy begin to arise in me and my mind becoming jealous of the boy who had it all.

And yet, I never could find myself to hate you, for when your eyes watered and you needed comforting, instead of your mother's arm, you came to rushing to my side. But perhaps she would have done a better job at making you feel like your joyful self again for a woman her age always knew best for her children.

Still you came to my child-self but that was back then; during days where we made promises on the staircase. Promising ourselves that we wouldn't be on the cruel news channel, no matter what. That we wouldn't become the monsters that put people on the news and instead be the kind people who helped others.

I think you knew that I would eventually break those promises when you saw me push that girl over at the playground when we were in 5th grade. My blazing eyes filled with the fire of hatred but for a reason I can't remember. I can only recall the strength in my arms when I pushed her onto the dirt ground and watched her eyes begin to water.

I didn't comfort or help her, that was for you only. However, after that day, you became hesitant to be by my side with my hand wiping your tears and we stopped making promises on the staircase.

Maybe if we stopped then this mess, this filthy mess that we made would cease to exist and in its place would be a painting of two boys with smooth skin and bright smiles would be there.

But the hand slipped and chaos was created.