Splitter in the ass and pimples on the face

The relationship with my brother in our childhood can be compared to North and South Korea. Despite our blood relationship, there was war in the air, which was only averted by a demilitarized buffer zone, in our case our parents. There were bright moments where our communication went beyond the language of fists. For example, when we wanted to set a speed record smoking our father's cigars at a tender age and couldn't manage it, ending up vomiting. Actually, only my brother resorted to painful blows away from our parents' gaze, while I perfected the role of the victim with my acting talent. My teary eyes and bruises awakened my parents' protective instinct, while my brother was judged. Sometimes, I pretended to have phantom pain and the parental justice punished an innocent person. In retrospect, my older brother prepared me for the big, unjust world, where one has to resort to all sorts of survival strategies and resist gnashing fiends. Of course, since my childhood, it has never happened to me again that someone rammed a fondue fork into my hand or that I was thrown against a window pane that shattered into a thousand shards.

I also believe that my brother was the inventor of bullying, because I don't know anyone who reminded me of my pimples as often as he did and emphasized how shitty they looked.

Meanwhile, we have grown older, my blemishes have disappeared, and to my satisfaction, he has developed a bald spot. Despite the mutual brotherly cruelties, this asshole has become a decent adult. We have never become best friends, because that's not what brothers are for, but I know that I can count on him and his fists. After all, in our childhood days, we together destroyed the neighbor's moped and when push came to shove, we stuck like glue.