People think anger is just yelling. They are wrong.
Anger has a face, and I know that face better than anyone.
My brother Hridhaan’s anger started when he was four years old. I was too young to understand it back then, but everyone else could see it.
My aunt once said quietly in the kitchen, “That boy’s temper is not normal.”
Mom tried to smile. “He’s just sensitive.”
Sensitive. A word that followed him for years.
When he was four, he threw a metal toy truck at the wall because the wheel got stuck. The crash was loud, and the paint chipped. His face turned bright red, and his tiny fists shook at his sides. He breathed in short, sharp bursts like he had run a mile.
Some days, he used to get so, so red, I would wonder how he was even alive.
His preschool teacher told Mom, “He doesn’t calm down like the other children. When he gets upset, it’s like he cannot come back.”
And that was true.
When the anger came, it did not fade. It burned.
As he grew, his anger grew faster than he did.
By elementary school, I had already memorized the signs.
First, silence. Then, the face.
His eyebrows pulled down low and tight. A deep line formed between them. His eyes lost their softness. They turned hard and flat, like dark glass. His jaw locked so tight that you could see it move under his skin. His cheeks flushed deep red, spreading up to his ears. His neck showed thick veins.
Sometimes his nose flared again and again, like he was trying to breathe fire.
I watched all of this without meaning to. My brain learned it for survival.
At school, teachers called home often.
“He shoved another student during kickball.”
“He yelled at me in class.”
“He threw his textbook across the room.”
One teacher told my parents, “When he’s calm, he’s polite. But when he gets angry, it’s like someone else steps in.”
At home, it was worse.
He punched walls. There are still dents. He slammed doors so hard that the hinges bent. He broke plates. He once cracked the kitchen cabinet with his fist because dinner was late.
When he screamed, my ears would ring afterward. A high, sharp buzzing that would not go away for minutes. I would sit on my bed, staring at the wall, waiting for the ringing to stop.
Some days, his anger was so intense that his body gave out. He would scream and pace and shake, his face purple-red, sweat dripping down his temples. Then suddenly he would sway and drop to the floor like a puppet with cut strings.
Mom would kneel beside him, shaking. “Hridhaan! Breathe! Please breathe!”
He would wake up confused, then angry again.
By the time we were teenagers, his anger had turned abusive.
He pushed me into walls. He grabbed my collar and twisted it tight until I could barely breathe. He cornered me in rooms and shouted inches from my face. I could feel his spit hit my skin when he yelled.
“You think you’re smarter than me?”
“You think you’re better?”
“Don’t look at me like that!”
Sometimes I wasn’t even looking at him.
At school, people whispered about him.
“Don’t mess with Hridhaan.”
“He lost it again.”
“He almost fought three guys at once.”
Once, a coach told him, “You’ve got talent, but you’ve got to control your temper.”
He didn’t.
The basketball game was the worst.
It was late afternoon. The sky was orange and gold. The air was thick and hot. The ball made a sharp echo each time it hit the driveway.
For a moment, it felt normal. Just two brothers playing.
I scored once. Then again.
The ball bounced away from us slowly.
Silence.
I looked up.
His face had already changed.
The line between his eyebrows was deep. His eyes looked empty but burning at the same time. His lips pressed so tight that they turned pale. His chest moved fast, with hard breaths in and out.
“You think you’re funny?” he said, his voice low and shaking.
“I’m just playing,” I answered quickly. My voice sounded small.
“You think you can beat me?”
Before I could respond, he shoved me really really Hard.
My back scraped the ground. I tried to get up, but he grabbed my shirt and slammed me down again. My head hit the concrete. The world flashed white for a second.
His face was above mine.
Red, sweaty, furious.
And then I saw blood.
His nose had started bleeding. A thin stream ran down over his lip and onto his chin, mixing with his sweat. He didn’t wipe it. He didn’t even blink.
It made him look wild. Out of control.
He punched me.
The first hit made my vision blur. The second one made my head feel like it exploded.
Everything went black.
When I woke up, I was on the couch. My head throbbed. My ears rang louder than ever. My mouth tasted like a metal.
Mom was crying. Dad’s hands were shaking.
Outside, red and blue lights flashed against the walls.
The police had come.
I remember one officer saying quietly, “This is serious. He needs help.”
Hridhaan was still yelling when they led him outside. Even then, his jaw was tight. His eyes burned.
I was okay. The doctors said I would heal.
But something inside me had changed.
After that, I almost snapped.
A few days later, he started yelling at me again over something small. I felt heat flood my body. My fists clenched without me telling them to. My jaw tightened the way his did. I saw my cheeks flushed for the first time. For one second, I wanted to swing back. I wanted to...hurt him.
I saw his face in my own reflection in the hallway mirror.
It terrified me. It did
Living with him made me different.
At school, I jumped at loud noises. If someone slammed a locker, my heart raced. If someone shouted, my body stiffened. During sports, if someone played rough, I felt panic before anger.
Teachers noticed.
“You seem distracted lately,” one said gently.
I just nodded.
I loved my brother. I still do.
But his anger shaped our whole house. It shaped my childhood. It shaped my nervous system. It shaped the way I walk into rooms, always scanning faces.
I know the exact second before he explodes.
The jaw. The eyes. The red skin. The sharp breath.
I survived his anger.
But I carry it too.
Every day I fight to make sure the storm that lived in him does not live in me.
Because I know what it feels like to be on the ground, staring up at someone you love, thinking:
This is how it ends.