Day 3.

My walk home was something of a blur. I don’t remember really doing it. My mind escaped inside while my feet took me where I needed to go. I only realized I was home when I opened the front screen door. It clanked behind me as I closed the wooden door, kicked my shoes off, and padded into the kitchen. No one seemed to be around.

Just as I got to the living room, about to head upstairs, it all sort of fell apart.

“Benjamin?” Mom was sitting on the couch, white blurry forms which I assumed were paperwork strewn all around her. She did this alot, liked to spread her stuff around her. I couldn’t see her clearly, but I bet she’d have a ballpoint in her hand, a highlighter behind her ear, as per usual. The curtains were open all the way, casting a cool blue light onto everything. Unfortunately, that everyone was me.

“What happened?” She stood, ignoring the papers which I heard scatter off in different directions, trying in vain to escape their captivity.

Moms are pretty remarkable at covering ground fast when they see injured offspring. One time when I was a kid I was running with Emilie, we were shooting water guns at each other. Just as I fired at her (missing her with profound skill), my black and white cat shot out in front of me. I tripped over him and flew forward, my knee skipping across the cement, grinding off the skin. It was bleeding pretty bad, but before anyone could say or do anything, mom had magically appeared and gathered me in her arms. I’ll never forget what a comfort it was to have her holding me as I cried.

I guess those days must be gone. Because when she came up to me now, I flinched back. I forgot I had been bleeding. It must have shown. And judging from the pulsing pain going through my face, I probably was getting some nasty bruises.

“I’m fine,” I said, starting to head up the stairs.

“Benjamin–”

“I think I’m gonna take a nap or something.”

And I just turned away and left her down there.

I’m a shy sort of guy, and generally what people call “sweet.” You know, the kind of boy you’d take home to meet your folks. Not that anyone ever has. But it always surprises me to realize that people, even nice guys like me, can be such absolute bastards to the ones they love. I don’t think its fair. To be so close to someone that you feel free to be whatever, and not hold back. So the people I truly love, the people I am closest to, get the worst sort of treatment.

I hate what I did to her. Even as I climbed the stairs I hated it. But I didn’t want to face it right now. To deal with what happened. Something inside made me angry that she wanted to know. Something else made me angry that I didn’t let her.

After that, all I can remember is falling into bed fully clothed, and passing into a sleep with no dreams.




“Benny?”

She shook me.

“Benny, hey wake up.”

She shook me again, tapped my head. I groaned, tried to pull the blankets over my head. She must have been sitting on them, because they didn’t budge.

“Hey Benny?”

She always called me Benny. Only one in the family who did. Used to hate it, but she persisted so much that it kind of grew on me.

“C’mon now.”

But only her.

“Benny!” This time she decided to smack my head.

“Em, cut it out,” I murmured, refusing to open my eyes.

“You should get up. Mom’s freaking a little bit. Oh wow, she wasn’t lying, that bruise is pretty sweet.”

I rolled over so I was facing the wall.”

“I thought you weren’t coming over till the weekend.”

“I ran out of food.”

She scooted further onto the bed, sitting behind me with her back against mine.

Emilie was thirty as of about four weeks ago. She lived in an apartment across town with a five year old cat and no roommate. I think Em was probably the only one in the family to rival me in the failure department. Em was single, and had always been single, and was perfectly content with that. She’d gone to school with a major in nonprofit business management. She did things here and there, but much to my mother’s chagrin was very happy being a waitress at Applebees. I think she was helping some organization the next town over, but she never talked about it much.

Em and I always connected the most.

After a few minutes in silence, Emilie kind of turned and leaned over my side.

“You don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to. But I thought you should know mom is worried. Plus you’re a little old to be bullied about by town kids so... I mean, if you want to tell someone, you know I won’t laugh at you or anything. Right?” She ruffled my hair, her way of saying she was joking. Then her weight lifted from the bed, the door closed behind her. I waited a few seconds before leaning up, kicking the blankets till they rested at about my knees.

I finally stumbled out of my room, down the hall and into what we called the “kid’s bathroom.” It was small and badly designed. The door barely opened past the edge of the small counter, in the middle was which was jammed the sink. I locked the door, stared into the mirror at a blurry mass that was my head. I couldn’t really remember which drawer had my spare glasses, so i went down one by one, rifling through it with both hands. In the back of the last drawer I found them and slipped them on.

They were dirty, the wrong prescription, and horribly huge, but they worked well enough to see out of. I had had these when I was younger. My stigmatism had changed slightly since them, as well as my sense of style (which was lacking even so, just a little less than when I thought these glasses were cool).
That was when I got my first glimpse (imperfect though it was) of my little run in earlier today. Just like I’d thought, I had a black eye, a bit of a swollen lip as well as a small cut. My chin still had a little dried blood on it.

I quickly washed up, touched at my bruise a little, trying to decide if it was cool or made me look like a wimp. I knew I had to go down there. But I also knew what would await me.

I glanced at my watch. Yep. Dad wouldn’t be home yet. Just the girls.

Another moment was claimed to ready myself. I tugged at my shirt to try to straighten it out a bit, smoothed down my jeans, and–

And realized I didn’t have my notebook. I didn’t need to search my room for it. I knew where it was. Somewhere in that field of weeds.

I groaned, leaned over the sink. That notebook was about half filled with little more than thoughts and story fragments, but that was me. Myself in the form of ink and paper.

So with that cheerful thought, I turned the knob of the door, and slowly led myself down towards a doom I doubt I could escape– my family.

The moment I stepped out, I could hear the whispers. They were all well meaning, of course, but most of the women in my family seemed to have a difficult time remembering that I am, indeed, a guy. I guess I’ve always been sort of... less than masculine. Not effeminate, just not a strong, dominant, sports playing, beer drinking, grilling sort of guy.

Down the steps I went. With each movement of my feet, I began to weave this fantasy. I would get to the bottom of the steps, to find everyone circled around Emily, who had doubtless risen to some new height of failuredom. I would get to the foot of the stairs without them noticing, into the kitchen, out the screen door, into the car, into town, where I would leap out of my car to save the life of a single young lady who was really into creative-type nerds and was about to get hit by a garbage truck. We’d date for a while, but realize we were perfect for each other, and we’d get married, and move a few hours away from here.

Oh. And Emily would rise above this new failure and start a massively popular and charitable charity.

I threw that last part in just so I wouldn’t feel bad about it.

The problem with fantasies is that they are rarely true. As evidenced by me actually reaching the last step, tentatively looking over into the living room, and seeing four sets of eyes focused on me.

“Sweet, check out that bruise,” my youngest sister, Lea, said in what she might have considered a whisper.

Lea was born during my father’s newfound obsession with Star Wars. She was a sophomore in highschool, and my parents’ “unexpected” pregnancy. By which I mean to say she was a mistake. She prefered to think of it as her superiority over our parent’s wills.

That’s how she lives her life.

She also thinks that I’m a gutless wonder, which isn’t entirely false, and that everything I do is a big joke.

“I bet he got it trying to steal a little girl’s lollipop,” Lea added. See what I mean? Ah, to have a little sister who looks up to her big brother so.

“Cut it out, Lea,” Em said. She was slightly removed from the others, sort of loitering by the window. I took that as a sign of her being slightly on my team in this situation.