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Hate	By : Bucken-Berry Category: G through L > Law & Order Views: 1374 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own SVU or it's characters, no money is being made off this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Chapter 1
- 2-Chapter 2
- 1
- 2
A/N: This story deals with potentially triggery material. Possible triggers include: explicit mentions of sibling-on-sibling child abuse (sexual, physical, and emotional), extreme violence, incestuous rape, PTSD, alcohol abuse/alcoholism, and attempted suicide. If any of the above are triggers for you, proceed with caution.

Just to clarify, George is 45 years old in this story.

He looked at his older brother, his older brother who he loved so much with everything he had. He was quivering with terror, as he had every time he saw him since his brother had first started doing this.
"M-M-Matthew, please, I'm sorry!" the young boy squeaked. "I didn't mean to upset you!"
"You ALWAYS upset me, you bastard!" Matthew roared, tightening his hold on the boy's wrist and twisting until he heard a loud wail of pain.
"Matthew, you're hurting me!" he cried, trying to wrench his hand free, to no avail. "I'm sorry, you don't need to punish me anymore! When momma and dad punish us, they say the point is to make us realize we're wrong, and I already know! I'm sorry!"
"Shut up, you worthless little asshole!" Matthew yelled, tugging him forward painfully. "You're the worst little brother on the planet!"
"P-please Matthew, I'm n-not! I'm a good b-brother! P-please don't beat me up again!" the small boy pleaded. Matthew had been beating him violently every day for three weeks, whenever he had to babysit after school and before their parents got home, and their only other sibling- their little sister- was so young that Matthew could easily bribe her with cookies and have her keep quiet about it.
He wasn't sure how much more he could take, and even worse, every time he tried to tell their parents, Matthew walked up to them with an intimidating look in his eyes, one that made it clear to him what would happen if he told. Matthew was sixteen, he was eight- he stood no chance.
But all the previous attacks were nothing, nothing at all, compared to what Matthew did this time. "You still aren't learning," Matthew said in a low growl, grasping the eight-year-old's shirt and shaking him violently. "I'll show you! After this punishment, you're going to realize it…"
"M-Matthew, w-what are you d-doing?" he cried as Matthew began to tug at his shirt, clearly trying to take it off. "Mom and dad said I didn't need a bath until they got home!"
"And you aren't getting one," Matthew said, smirking. He finally succeeded in removing his shirt, to the younger boy's mortification.
"Stop it! I don't want you to take my clothes off! I don't want you to see me naked!" He exclaimed.
"Too bad," Matthew said coldly. "You should have thought of it before you acted like a brat all the time."
"You don't have to-" he began, only to be cut off by Matthew backhanding him brutally hard. He gave a loud cry of pain, resulting in Matthew growling in anger and squeezing his throat with both hands. His eyes became wide with fear as he desperately fought to escape. "M-Matthew- ack- stop, I can't breathe! I can't breathe!" he said, gasping for breath every few words.
"Then don't use all your air telling me, moron," Matthew said cruelly.
He started to cry, body shaking with sobs. "Why are you always– ack- mean to me?" he cried between frantic gasps. "You're supposed to- ack- love your siblings and be nice to them! I- ack- love you, so why do you hate me?"
"You're one to talk!" Matthew screamed, tightening his hands. "And you know why I hate you? I hate you because every day, since the day you were born, you've always ruined EVERYTHING for me!"
"I'm s-sorry, I- ack- I- I didn't- ack- mean to!" he cried, feeling the tears streaming down his face. He didn't want his dear older brother to hate him; he hadn't meant to upset him!
Black spots invaded his vision, and he gave another frantic wheeze. A second later, he went limp, suddenly too overwhelmed with weakness and lethargy to hold his body up. Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to sleep, and he didn't care if he was in danger.
Just as suddenly as they'd started squeezing, the hands left his throat, and he began to draw in greedy gulps of air, but without opening his eyes; he didn't have the energy.
"M-Matthew?" he called weakly. His voice was a hoarse whisper; it sounded even worse than it had after he'd gotten his tonsils out a year earlier. "Hey, what did you do to my voice?" he demanded angrily.
"Oh, just shut up for once!" Matthew said agitatedly.
A second later he felt his shirt being ripped off, and though he wanted to stop him, the only movements he managed were jerky and uncoordinated; useless to fight him off. Matthew effortlessly removed it, and moved on to his pants. He continued to try to fight Matthew off and escape, but he was frozen in place by his oxygen-starved body.
He heard another set of clothing being removed, and then Matthew was pulling him upwards. He gave a whine of protest, but Matthew shook him violently, forcing him to open his eyes.
"Get on your knees. NOW!" Matthew ordered.
"M-Matthew, I don't w-want to," he whimpered. He didn't know exactly what Matthew wanted, but given the pain Matthew had inflicted on him almost constantly the last few weeks, it was obvious that it was nothing good, and he couldn't handle Matthew beating him up any longer.
Matthew shouted in anger and grasped his wrist again, twisting it so violently that he could swear he felt the bone snap. He howled in agony, but Matthew didn't let him go.
"Are you going to do it?" Matthew asked pointedly. "Are you going to do what I tell you to?"
"Y-Yes!" he cried, tears of pain streaming down his face. "I'll do it! I'll do whatever you want! Just let me go, you're hurting me! It hurts, let-me-gooooo!"
Matthew finally released him, and he gave a small cry of pain and terror, cradling his wrist to his chest and struggling to breathe through his sobs. "M-Matthew, I th-think you broke my arm!" he cried. "We n-need to call mom and dad so they c-can come home and take me to the d-doctor!"
Matthew ignored him. He pushed him down to his knees and pressed his penis against his face.
"M-Matthew, n-n-no," he whimpered. He didn't understand anything about sex yet, but he did understand that what Matthew was going to do wasn't good, and it would be painful.
Matthew used the opportunity to force himself inside his mouth, making him gag and struggle for breath.
He tried to pull away, but Matthew pressed his hands on his shoulders, pinning him in place. He began to thrust rapidly in and out of his mouth, making his throat burn in pain, surpassing the pain from any sore throat he'd ever gotten- even the tonsillectomy felt like nothing compared to this. But what confused him most was that Matthew was truly enjoying whatever he was doing; he was groaning in pleasure with each thrust.
After what felt like years, Matthew gave another loud groan of pleasure, and some sticky, terrible-tasting fluid spilled into his mouth. Matthew pulled out of his mouth, while he choked and tried to spit the disgusting liquid out.
George Huang woke with a gasp, body jerking. He panted for breath and immediately grasped at his right wrist, needing to be reassured that it was, indeed, not broken, and his brother couldn't hurt him anymore. The bone ached, though, and the reason was quickly revealed; it was raining. After Matthew had broken it, he'd always gotten arthritis-like pain in his wrist whenever it rained.
He didn't have nightmares every day, or even every week, but despite all the time that had passed, the mental and emotional scars hadn't faded any more than his physical ones had. He still took antidepressants, and couldn't function without them, and he still had flashbacks and panic attacks more often than he'd like. Even though he was gay, he was too afraid of men to make any attempt to find love. He had only had a few lovers in his lifetime, and every time they began to earn his trust, he became too afraid, and he broke it off.
He took several deep breaths, not wanting to remember the physical, sexual, and emotional abuse his brother had inflicted on him and the impact it still had on his life. Matthew had started hurting him physically right after he'd turned sixteen, and the day he had just dreamed about had been the first, but far from the last, time the abuse had become sexual, as well as physical.
At the time, he hadn't known quite enough to know what Matthew was doing, but he had known that it was bad and painful and humiliating. Especially after the first time, when he'd gone even further, like making George perform manual sex on him, and anally raping him and touching his genitals. That was always the worst; he always felt dirty after Matthew did anything to him, but it was worst when Matthew touched him and was in him.
He'd tried telling his mom that Matthew was hurting him, while they waited for the x-ray to confirm that his wrist was broken, but she had simply told him not to blame others for his own clumsiness and to just tell the truth; he and Matthew had been roughhousing, and he'd fallen, breaking his wrist.
He had felt crushed that his parents wouldn't believe him, and the next few weeks had been a hellish nightmare, him trying to fend his brother off every day with absolutely nowhere to escape and no one to turn to. His cast, at least, could be used as a sort of shield from Matthew's punches, but otherwise, he had been completely helpless.
George shivered heavily and sighed, forcing himself to get out of bed. He always felt ill after remembering what had happened to him, but he couldn't just take off work for it. He was worried that he'd be jumpy, leading his co-workers to realize that something was wrong, but he could suppress his reaction fairly well after all this time, and he could always just say that he was jumpy because he'd had a lot of coffee, or some other excuse.
After he took a shower and pulled a suit on, he grabbed his medical bag, laptop, and various files and drove to work. The first thing on his schedule was testifying in court, and after that, he would mostly be talking to his patients, and giving a few profiles to the detectives.
He arrived at the courthouse, and the trial ran smoothly. His testimony that the perpetrator's alleged brain disorder didn't stop him from knowing right from wrong ended up being crucial in the guilty verdict, which allowed him a small sense of pride.
As he drove to Bellevue and interviewed his patients, he more or less lost himself in his work, the nightmare mostly forgotten except for a slight sense of edginess that wouldn't entirely fade.
But he hid it well, out of habit, and no one ever guessed what a heavy weight he carried every day; no one ever guessed about the painful past that still haunted him now as much as it had 35 years ago.
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