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Bro, I need to borrow some money. Like…immediately.
I sigh at the message on my phone screen from my stepbrother. Firstly, he never ‘borrows’ anything – that would imply he pays me back. He never does. Secondly, I gave him a grand last week. How can he have burnt through that so fast?
It’s not like I don’t have the money – I do – but the others are always telling me I let him walk all over me, that I’m an easy touch. I think they might be right. It’s a cycle, this relentless pestering for cash. It’s as if he has no sense of boundaries, no understanding that there’s more to life than my bank balance.
I start to type a response, my fingers hovering over the screen, and then I hesitate. What can I say to make him see reason, to make him realise that he needs to stand on his own two feet for once? I know it’s futile, but I try anyway.
I gave you a grand last week, mate. You need to learn to manage your money. I can’t keep bailing you out.
The seconds tick by, and I can almost hear the frustration in his reply.
Come on, Dash. Just this once. I’ll pay you back, I promise.
His words hang heavy in the air, a hollow promise I’ve heard too many times before. I’m torn between wanting to help my stepbrother and knowing that if I do, I’m enabling him to continue down this destructive path.
As I debate my response, I wonder if I’m trapped in this never-ending cycle, too. It’s not just about money; it’s about boundaries, self-respect, and the need to break free from a toxic connection that’s been holding me hostage for far too long.
Another message alert pulls me from my contemplation. I open the text, half expecting another plea for financial rescue, but instead, the screen reveals a string of angry messages from my stepbrother. Eventually, his anger runs its course, and the final message is pleading:
Dash, don’t be like this, man. I’m in real trouble here.
I swear I’ll pay you back.
You’re the only family I’ve got left.
His words cut deep, and the guilt that always accompanies these situations weighs me down. Despite the constant letdowns, a part of me still wants to help, to be there for him in his time of need.
My thumbs hesitate over the keypad. The others may say I’m an easy touch, but deep down, I know it’s because I still hold out hope for him, for us, for the fractured family we’ve become.
Look, I’ll help, but this is the last time, alright? And you’d better pay me back. I mean it.
I hit send. Will this time be any different? If, just maybe, this could be the turning point for both of us, a chance to break free from our destructive whirlwinds.
I send another message, my concern overriding the frustration that’s been building up.
Are you in some sort of trouble?
The response comes swiftly, and the words on the screen are more desperate this time.
Yeah, mate, I really messed up. I owe some dodgy blokes a lot of money, and they’re breathing down my neck. I don’t know what to do.
I’m scared. They’re bad people and they’re tired of waiting. Last week they killed a guy right in front of me just to show what they can do. You don’t fuck with these guys, bro. I’m desperate.
Please. I’m literally begging you. Help me, brother. I don’t want to die.
I take in his admission, a heavy sigh escaping my lips. This isn’t just about bailing him out of a tight spot; it’s about his safety now. My protective instincts surge, and as much as he’s let me down, I can’t abandon him when he’s facing real danger.
Alright, I’ll meet you at the usual place. Give me a couple of hours. I’ll message when I’m on my way. We’ll figure this out together. But you’ve got to promise me that this is the last time.
His gratitude comes through in the subsequent messages, but a nagging doubt still lingers. I can only hope that this time, things will be different, and he’ll finally find a way out of the mess he’s in.
Thankfully, I’m not working at the club tonight, so I have time to swing by my flat in the city. The traffic’s a bitch, and it takes way longer than I expected, but once I’ve grabbed a couple of grand from my safe, emptied the mail, fed my neighbour’s cat, and generally checked on the place I used to call home but no longer frequent, it’s time to face my stepbrother.
We meet at the dimly lit alley we’ve used as our secret rendezvous point for years. As I approach, I can see the tension in his face, etched with worry. He looks beaten down, and for a moment, I remember the times when we were truly brothers, before life’s hardships had driven a wedge between us. Before our entire family abandoned him, turning their backs on his troublesome ways.
“Thanks for coming, Dash,” he mumbles, unable to meet my eyes.
I give him a hard look, but it’s softened by the concern I can’t hide. “You need to tell me everything, mate. What have you got yourself into?”
