-----------------------------------
In this story the Echizen family moves in HIGH SCHOOL not middle school.
-----------------------------------
One of the defining moments of my childhood happened in sixth grade, at the end of the school day.
For some kids, their problems at that stage in life are: if they can run faster than so-and-so, or if they finished their homework.
My problems were if I was going to be able to get to my high school classes on time, or what the 127th digit of Pi was.
That day, my world crumbled slightly, and I was forced to make a choice no sixth grader should ever make.
***Le Flashback***
It was early afternoon, and the sun was about three-quarters done with its path across the blue, slightly cloud-peppered sky. Los Angeles was hot, as always, and I was wearing a blue t-shirt, along with black shorts, and my usual worn and torn tennis shoes.
Back then I carried a tennis case, instead of my laptop bag.
I was sitting on a bench, tennis classes had just finished, and I was waiting for ryoma to come back from his practice. Absentmindedly, I ran through several iterations of physical analysis for ryoma's (and my) tennis career
The tip of my mechanical pencil broke, as my eyes widened in slight horror and realization. I worked back through the pages, but there were no mistakes. I made sure everything was right, that I had not jumped to any conclusions, or omitted any variables, frantically flipping pages, the pencil clashed down on the pavement, spinning once, and my breathing sharpened.
My sixth-grade brain was in complete shock, fingers shaking, bangs shading my face, hiding me from the world.
I heard footsteps. Ryoma. The one in my equation. I shut my notes, quickly hiding my emotions, masking them so well, I almost forgot them
Almost.
As we walked, ryoma was going on and on about tennis and the idiots on the team, as my tennis raquet pressed further and further into my shoulder. As we walked, I noticed his smile.
It wasn't in his face, or his mouth.
Ryoma's smile was in his eyes. I remembered his expression, and in that moment, I captured my brother.
Green tinted hair, golden eyes, shaded by a white cap. A slightly faded red shirt, with a crest on the right sleeve.
His eyes shone with amusement, his lips curled in a slight smirk, talking in perfect English, we walked the streets of Los Angeles, sun beating on our backs, and a slight uncommon breeze floating through the streets.
I participated in conversation as usual, giving my own plans and opinions to him, and eventually talking about the idiots in the high school I went to for physics and math.
But my eyes weren't sparked like his, my mouth in a straight line. I was glaring at the pavement, so hardly, it almost cracked.
My mind went back to my analysis, re-working everything, from start to finish. But somewhere, in the deep recesses of my consience, I knew.
There was no mistake.
Ryoma noticed my distraction, not saying anything, but giving my space in our room upstairs.
I stayed, small elbows on my desk, feet not even touching the floor, head in my hands, looking down onto the dreaded math I had applied to my brother and myself.
It made heat rise in my head, behind my eyes, and back then I would have characterized it as anger, sadness and maybe a speck of guilt.
I paced, wearing holes in the ceiling, and little to my knowledge, downstairs my parents, as well as my brother, all looked up in unison, at the familiar sound of my pacing.
There were two amused expressions, and a frown.
That day, would be my last day playing real tennis for a while.
After a bit, I came downstairs, ignoring my parents, and going straight to ryoma.
My emotionless expression, and shift in aura was automatically noticed by him, and he followed me outside.
He knew what I wanted, a match.
I took up my usual side of the court.
"Rough or smooth, Akira?"
"Rough."
He spun the raquet, the E on the bottom landing right side up,
Smooth, he served.
Bouncing the tennis ball, his red racquet in his left hand, right away.
Good. He knew my skill level.
A particularly strong twist serve landed, right in front of me, twisting towards my face.
I stepped slightly out of the way, driving my tennis racquet down on the ball, adding a strong forward and left spin on the ball. The ball hit the ground in front of ryoma, skidding to his exact left, it's flight path parallel to the net.It made a right angle, and Ryoma couldn't even move until it hit the fence outside the court.
"Love-fifteen" my voice was merciless, and my heart froze over. by the end of the game, he would understand.
I hit the same ball twice more, each time, he couldn't hit it back.
"Love-30"
"Love-40"
For the last one, he hit a new serve, something I hadn't seen before.
It was interesting, so I hit it back weakly, it held my interest.
He hit it back, forehanded, putting an insane amount of spin on the ball.
He was finally playing seriously.
We battled it out, and my advantage slowely decreased. But I was just toying with him, and he got angry, smirking in slight anger, and yelling across the court in Japanese. "Be serious, Akira!!" His eyes burned.
He served, the ball moving in a circular pattern toward me. My eyes widened, and accidentally, I used my special technique. An ice blue light settled over everything, and all wind stopped.
I hit the ball, and it blazed, its path was quadratic, cutting through the air, slicing across the court.
The air became cold, and as Ryoma hit the ball, his racquet froze, he was unable to move, suddenly, his raquet spin in his grip, and he dropped it. the ball dropped to the cement, rolling In a circle. Then, it released all of its energy.
Energy that would have been spent on Ryoma if he hadn't dropped his racquet.
The ball shot up, it's energy released, it's formation was square, like an ice crystal, rising from the court.
Ryoma staggered back. How was this possible? He saw me, standing, my eyes shaded by my bangs, not even looking at him.
One game to love.
No one said it, but it was in our heads.
I had just used my ice tennis on my brother. Something I had sworn to never do.
In the second game, I hadn't allowed him to score a single point. I kept my emotions from my golden eyes, I used my ice tennis on him, watching his entire world fall down.
I flung everything I had at him, and his expression almost broke my sanity.
I was hurting my twin, it was just like hurting myself.
We finally made eye contact, and ryoma was shocked at my expression. My serious expression. My heartlessness. The next games shot by, Ryoma's efforts didn't even matter. My three ice tennis shots dominated the game.
It had to be done.
My data yielded two very simple conclusions.
1. Ryoma was breaking himself, at a young age. Practicing more than what was healthy, while belittling everyone around him.
To do this, I had to bring him down, after this game, his arrogance would aide him, not get in the way of his tennis.
2. If we both continued playing, he would be in my shadow his entire career, and he would either end up quitting tennis, or having permanent damage done to himself.
So I would stop playing.
I would stop playing.
I would become his enemy, for his benefit.
Finally, at the last game, Ryoma was close to tears. I was emotionless.
No tears from me.
His serve. It was weak, yet behind it was the will to win.
I played, and in the last point, I smirked slightly.
I was going to show him my final ability.
Ice Blizzard.
The ball bounced into my court, and Ryoma, battered with bruises- small scrapes littering his hands, stood at the end of his, awaiting my move.
I hit it back, with every essence of my small being.
A white light consumed the both of us, the ball whizzing in Ryoma's side of the court, in geometric shapes.
As the ball skidded, it gave him small cuts.
One on his cheek, another on his hand, a third on his leg.
Ice blizzard indeed.
When it came to a rest, the ball was behind the line, smelting itself into the metal fence.
Ryoma was on the ground, collapsed.
I walked to the net.
"Stand up."
He looked up, failure in his eyes.
"STAND UP, RYOMA." Tears sprung slightly from my cheeks.
He got up, walking closer to the net, but still far away, like I was some sort of monster. He wavered, before his eyes squinted and he speed-stepped right up to me, inches away.
I looked at his broken racquet.
I took my racquet by its head, putting the handle out to him.
"Take it. It's yours now."
Small tears leaked out from his eyes, lookin up at me with a lack of understanding.
"That's your racquet, Aki-, how are you going to play?"
Nonetheless he took it, by the handle.
I turned, hastily wiping my eyes with the back of my hand.
"I'm not. Ryoma."
He looked complete, my black and purple hexagonal-patterned racquet in his hand.
"Not anymore."
He looked up, shocked, his eyes flying open in anger,
"What, Akira. What are you doing, stop it, stop it."
He staggered up, and I turned back around, giving him a kind, slightly bitter smile.
"Goodbye, Ryoma."
I left him, that day, the same time I left tennis.
He was on his knees, a demolished red racquet on the ground next to him. Until he thought I was out of sight, he stood in silence, his back turned. As I turned a corner, out of sight, restrained sounds filled the air, as he doubled over, clutching my purple racquet to his chest.
My footsteps were loud, clattering on the cement.
I did it, I saved him from a terrible future.
I saved my big brother.
If I saved him, why does this feel so bad?
Why does my brain protest at my every move, my stomach feel like its full of rocks?
Why is my eyesight blurry, and why are my footsteps uneven?
Why do I feel like this?
***Flashback end****
That was the first time I was truly alone, and back then, I remember the skyscrapers, brushing the clouds, the breeze intensifying around me.
For the first time in my life, I was all by myself.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.