Exile

I yank my cap further down, trying to shield my face from view. 

There's a group of young women checking me out from the opposite end of the bar. Their hungry gazes lick over me in blatant interest and I angle myself away in the hope they won't recognize me. 

However, it's gotten to the point where people recognize me from behind – from the nape of my neck, no less. I used to be elated by this kind of attention, and now it makes me feel sick. What do these people find so admirable and attractive about me?

My closest friends and family can't even stand my presence.

And worst of all, I'm finding it hard to even like myself.

If these people saw the real, depraved me – they'd leave too. They'd be repulsed.

But they can't see past the surface level attractiveness that I know I've been blessed with. And that makes me sick.

I don't deserve to be the focus of their admiration for being nothing more than a barbie doll. Pretty on the outside, but an empty shell inside.

I can feel myself sinking. Down into the hole that has been clawing at me since Ashley left.

"Jack." A hand lands on my shoulder and I twist around. Uncomfortable with even my brother touching me, I shrug him off, but Michael doesn't look surprised. His hand drops to his side.

She left because of him.

Michael looks disgustingly happy – there are relaxed lines around his eyes, and his greeting grin is open and warm. Carefree.

"You're late," I respond tersely, ice coating my voice, wanting the shards to stab him just a little bit. Wanting him to bleed in pain like me.

Michael's effervescent energy subdues the slightest bit, but it doesn't make me happy, and I watch as the competent doctor side of him comes out. It's in the breadth of his shoulders, the wisdom in his voice, his solid gaze that informs you that he's seen things. "There was an emergency at work."

I nod. I'm not even surprised, not really. You realize growing up with doctors for parents there is always an emergency more pressing than you are. 

While you are figuratively dying, there's someone in the hospital who is literally dying. Who are you to say that you're more important?

But his words still dig into me, effective even in his ignorance. The subtle reminder of his life-saving work, compared to my 'vain and conceited' work as my father so aptly put it the last time we shared a room together.

"Let's go to the booth in the corner," I indicate the one in the darkest part of the bar, "those women are giving me the creeps."

Michael's gaze drifts curiously over my shoulder to the women I'm avoiding looking at. "Have they recognized you yet?"

"No, and I plan to keep it that way," I return darkly, already walking in the direction of the booth.

We sit down and a server brings around a couple of beers that I ordered for us while I was waiting for Michael to arrive. I thank her gruffly and she doesn't respond, uninterested in my misery guts. Thank god.

Michael clinks the neck of his beer against mine, smiling as he leans back in his seat. "Thanks."

I shake my head, still aware of the gazes of strangers wandering over me as if they own me. Hunching my shoulders, I cradle my beer loosely in my hands. Condensation is running down the outside of the glass bottle, wetting my fingertips.

The way that Michael is examining me makes me nervous, restless. The familiar and old anxious need for approval skittling under my skin. I used to idolise Michael – I tried to shape myself into his image. But that worship distorted when I realised that I didn't want to be what my parents wanted, didn't want to be what he wanted for himself, and it disfigured completely when he looked at me with pity and worry in his eyes.