Sid and the Last Five Years

Don't eat me, don't eat me.

-How have things changed in the past five years? What is the same? What is different?-

Don't eat me, don't eat me.

I tapped my pencil against the desk engraved with many a high-school lovers names, and tapped my foot to the tune to the non existent radio. Ms. Andreq's blonde hair fell in loose ringlets around her freckled face; the face was one that never grew from that of an eleven year old's. She curved each letter on the board with such perfection and exhaled a deep breath as she did so, as if trying to relieve tension.

The question seemed to elongate itself as if it were an endless road leading the end right back to the start.

-How have things changed in the past five years? What is the same? What is different?-

I hated this class. I hated a lot of things. I hated writing. I hated flowers. I hated cats. I hated hate. I hated myself. But I hated him the most.

I glanced back up at the board to see if anything had changed; it hadn't.

The tip of my pencil was still sharp and fresh, never hitting the lined paper. I placed my name on the line, dulling the tip.

I was nine. My favorite animal was a cat, and the grass outside was green. The day was just tapering to an end as the black oil of night painted the sky, like a ballpoint broken pen set on the clearest of tables only to leave the ink residue.

My brother hadn't been diagnosed; Adam was just Adam to me. I didn't know the difference. I didn't see the way the kids on the playground had grouped themselves into islands among a giant archipelago and whispered about him. I didn't see the way teachers talked slower to him as if to spell unfamiliar words out, like he was a foreigner. I didn't see the special treatment he was given compared to the other children, because all I thought was that he was my brother. Mom never gave him any attention; Mom was barely home.

During that time, paper was never left unturned. I painted, and for the most part they were normal; they were normal like me.

Adam sat next to me and talked about something I couldn't decode from the slurs of his strong lisp, and the sound of heavy high heels flooded the air. In the other room I could hear my drunken mom stagger and scream at my dad, laughing at the pain she was causing him. I heard her mock his personal appearance and the way he did things, just spitting out the nastiest of insults and humiliating him. Even though I was eight, I wasn't stupid. I could hear them getting at it, Dad's voice was rising from the usual calm, steady monotone he carried and Mom was continuing on with her screaming.

Dad threw words at her like bricks, and Mom fought back; Adam was quiet with a confused look on his face, as I studied the way his eyes studied mine. “You're just stupid! That's all you are, all you'll ever be, stupid!” I listened in on Mom really getting aggravated. Her drunken character was obvious although it was not seen.

“You're acting ridiculous!” Dad fought back. “I'm tired of your shit!” he argued.

“Tired of my shit- Well then I'll just take the kids and go- Adam's not yours anyway.”

Then Dad snapped. He wasn't the same. The house wasn't the same. The green grass outside wasn't the same. Cats weren't my favorite animal anymore.

*

I don't like writing.

I sat on my bed, my back curled like those of the disgusting felines that occasionally stalked around the house for small rodent prey. The chestnut headboard hit the wall, again and again. I heard the moan of my mom and whatever slut she had the next room over. In the other room, Adam screamed and cried, I would too, but he had freedom.

The closet stared back at me. It's mouth open, it's empty solid face staring back at mine. My eyes looked away, and I shut out the light. Where there was dark, there was no light.

Don't eat me, don't eat me.