Writing has always been a good distraction for me. It distracts me from the pain I feel, hurt I endure, the ache from my brother's constant absence, always there but not there at the same time. It distracts me from who I am. Pathetic, but true.
When I write, I forget about my brother, forget my name. The four, badly chipped white walls of my room fade away, and I become someone else. I become whoever I want to be. That relief, however, is only temporary, because I eventually have to return to my reality, a reality that I've come to despise.
I despise school, because I've learned to despise people. I despise the subjects that I do. I love my brother, but I despise the relationship that I have with him. That is perhaps the worse one. There isn't much that I wouldn't do to mend our relationship.
This classroom wreaks of that reality, the stench of the teenagers after a full day of school filling the air. I watch as the teacher's lips move with passion, his hands gesturing to convey his emotions, but I can't hear him. Or I don't want to. I'm not quite sure which one.
I've been occupying my time by trying to calculate the number of tiles on the floor, since I can't take out my book and start writing in the middle of the class. I'm not that rude. I start by counting the number of tiles across the class vertically. Then horizontally. Then, I multiply. Then, I start to analyse the individual tiles. I notice that each of the marble tiles seems to have it's own, unique pattern, almost as if having personalities or fingerprints. Like people. Then, the thought of how no two irises are the same comes to mind, and I start to think about my own eyes, which bums be out.
He catches my attention when he starts giving out colourful folded pamphlets, letting the students pass them around the class. Two are handed to me, and I regard them both with mild interest. They're university pamphlets.
"So, yes! You need to start thinking about life after sixth form..."
I tune him out once more, picking at a loose thread on my dark green uniform. University is the last thing on my mind. I'd like to finish sixth form first, then worry about that later. With a brother like mine, I don't even see how the tuition fee would be paid. Our parents died when I was thirteen, and he has been my legal guardian ever since. It hasn't been particularly easy on him, but he hasn't tried that hard either. For someone with a bachelors in human resource management, he could be a little bit more ambitious. Instead, he insists on being the loyal barista at a deli uptown with no apparent interest of changing his job. Not that there's anything wrong with being a barista. It's just that he has the resources to do better, and he has me to support.
As the students begin to trickle out of the classroom, I gather my things into my bag, standing myself. However, my teacher, who's name I cannot remember, stops me.
"Emma, can I talk to you for a minute?" he asks gently. He smoothens the front his long sleeve dark purple shirt with one, skinny-fingered hand.
I really don't want to. The thought of interacting with another person leaves an unpleasant feeling on the back of my keck, but for my own sake, I choose to not give him some half as se'd excuse to run out on him. He has never asked to speak with me privately, though, so I figure that it's important.
Slowly, I drag my feet towards the young teacher, my eyes pointedly staring at his tie. I don't like making eye contact with strangers, or those who I am not familiar with. It feels as if I'm opening myself up to judgement, what with having heterochromia and all.
Once I am standing in front of him, I raise my eyes to his lips to see that he graces me with a smile, a genuine smile. It's as if he wasn't expecting me to come to him. I don't blame him.
"Have you thought about university yet?"
No, because my brother is unambitious and broke.
"No, Sir." I smile gently at him, touched by his concern. I don't usually smile at people, but I will make an exception when someone does something exceptionally kind or special, like this.
YOU ARE READING
Siblings and Secrets
General FictionAs a young child, my brother and I were inseparable. He was my rock, always there when I needed him. And I did need him. Until one day, my rock crumbled under me, leaving in it's place someone who I did not recognise. The worst part is that I never...
