My other brother was quiet, having a few friends, giving me a feeling that they even talked in silence. He watched the world through thick specs trying himself out in something creative, but failing and moving on later with a quick shrug of the shoulders.
Is the world, reality a fade, a shrug or done shrug?
And there was me. Somebody who was closed up as possible hiding her arms behind long sleeves, a tuque always upon her forehead and headphone cords sticking out of her ears.
My brother ignored it and kept bringing boyfriends, my second brother kept failing and I kept closing up.
Only there was the problem of no more space to dream. I was getting desperate, nearly hysterical, shouting at myself for being useless at dragging my parents and family out of my space. I wanted a grab a piece of chalk, yell at them for stop molesting me with their useless suggestions and use chalk on their faces. I wouldn’t stand their melancholic eyes.
Get a fashionable haircut, Roberta.
Dress more famine.
Get a nice boyfriend.
Bring him to us.
Become a housewife and close your eyes on his cheats.
Deal with asshole children.
Rot in peace.
That’s why I shoved the idea in their fat faces, my mind yelling at me, grabbing me by my face leaving noticeable scars of misery. How poetic, was written on their faces.
My brother shrugged, knowing, praying that I’ll still end up as a housewife as he believed I like all other females I was a chewing gum, I’d be proof, as the taste disappeared I was no longer approvable and the next would come, only I was made for other guys to use.
The other shrugged, asking me several polite questions but more with his eyes studying me in such a heartbreaking gaze that I wanted to punch him, but I never was violent.
I never was poetic.
And here I was doing something, something to escape.
In a poetic way.
It didn’t matter all that did was the speech that I might find the ideal guy and follow the damned plan written by men throughout centuries, with no other way to survive.
It was like a play.
Only I was no longer part in the fucking play.
I escaped. I had room to dream.
I even had that cupboard or whatever it was, where my dreams folded into one big dusty, cozy dream with a teal touch to it leaving a gooey fuzzy feeling inside. Was it really a cupboard, a closet with those dreams crumbled up inside, falling, colouring the room in milliseconds as I’d blink and everything would take place, as if it was always there.
But then, had I chosen that door before?
Had I felt that chill creep up to me, had I ever seen Mason before?
Was it a déjà vu? But there was no feeling, it was just a thought with no background, just like a sudden choke during breathing.
Like that choke during breakfast.
I choked on it as I imagined my parents walk around elbowing me as some guy would greet me or the other way round and the same applied if a girl did, only then the questions followed, two one after another ‘Eddie, Eddie, do you like her? No, stop it, Jeremy, enough, enough. She’s not yours.’ Then a humiliating action of my parents covering my older brother’s eyes. Eddie would shrug, fixing his glasses, as my parents would pray that he wasn’t gay.
He had a girlfriend, apparently, well, I believed he had. I saw him with a girl and the story flowed in my head. But then I saw him with the same guy and another scenario drew itself up in my mind.
Jeremy would pout but would end up with the girl on his lap by the end of the damned day. Usually my parents would drag him out of there and start talking some long chat about respecting women and crap which I could tell him myself in a more reasonable way, but my brother never listened. He just fucked.
So it was the three of us, all corrupted, one anti-feministic player, who was too open for any girl possible and two one of them clearing trying to desperately find everything about him, like a journey into the self and that left me.
Oh, and moronic parents.
Right, and more moronic family members.
I guess I could say I was ok with seeing Ed, as he’d just strode into the small village near our boarding school or stick his nose into a book somewhere quiet and parents off-limits. Jeremy? Hell, no, I had enough watching of the back of his head with some girl, which would change tomorrow.
My parents thought it fun, as we’d reunite to find out what classes I was failing or how come I was closing up and if I wasn’t suicidal. Of course I was! Who remembers March’s jumping of the cliff attempt? Fun!
I hated the fact that people loved digging their noses into my business, even Spear’s business. I mean, come on, that’s just mean… even if she’s losing Barbie in IQ. I flipped my fingers throughout one, but then I felt so guilty that I actually helped those photographers which have no lives and jump on celeb cars, get hit by canned beans that I spent the rest of my money on charity for no real reason.
I even headed to church, thinking if it actually was a sin.
It was, in my eyes.
I walked outside, wondering if I even had a cross, as I realized that I was an atheist. So was it a double-sin, to pray and not believe?
Exit is nearing it's end really. I always had an on and off relation, maybe now just because it's written and Exit needs no editing, I miss doing that like with Papercut for instance.
Most likely the next novel will be Toby Sketches.