Currently Seeking: A Life

My brother, James, is sat opposite me, chewing methodically like each mouthful is a burden to him. His hair, so blue that it looks black, falls into his eyes and covers half his face. I cannot tell where he is looking and for some reason, this bugs me. I want to tell him to cut his hair but I don't because I know this will trigger a string of arguments between him and me, then him and my parents. I don't want to land him in that predicament because he never handles the confrontation and pressure our parents put on him well.

He's seventeen, on the edge of the point of no return. He isn't aware of what devastation lies before him, the stress of the future. He's ignorant but soon, he'll realise. I want him to enjoy the last moments of being dependent on family, even if he doesn't understand it yet. He thinks his life is tough now; school is hard, we don't 'get' him, stay out of his room, leave him alone. We've all been there.

My mother cuts up her piece of lasagna with incredible precision, every section a perfect square. Opposite her, my dad is shovelling it into his mouth as fast as he can, the sauce and cheese flowing like a food landslide down his chin and I hear the disapproving tut from my mum beside me. I pick at my food, pushing it around with my fork, trying to make it seem like I've eaten more than I have because my mother always provides us with larger-than-we-can-manage portions.

My dad feels like this is a good time to start a conversation, breaking through the stifling silence by clearing his throat. We all look up at him simultaneously, automatic like robots.

"I met one of Violet's friends today - "

"He's not my friend. He's my co-worker." I interject, laying down my knife and fork.

My dad chuckles, addressing my mother.

"You should have seen the way he ran after the car. He wanted to say goodbye!"

This is my least favourite topic to talk about: me. James finally perks up, lifting his head to look at me with dead eyes. He only speaks to me if he wants to be insulting so I brace myself.

"Someone was prepared to run after Violet? He must be desperate."

I pull a face at him and try to secretly fling a piece of garlic bread at his nose. It sails over his head though and he smirks triumphantly, squeezing the life out of his own garlic bread between his thumb and forefinger. I watch as he wipes the grease onto his shirt.

"James, stop playing with your food! I didn't spend my evening preparing it for you to just mess about." my mum snaps, pointing her knife at his plate.

His face slips back into a scowl, his head ducking back down so he can hide behind his curtain of hair. This is all we will hear from him tonight and I'm relieved.

My dad, always the diplomat when trouble is brewing, throws himself into where he left off.

"But love, you should have seen the guy. Wearing his apron like a shawl - "

"I think he was going for the cape look, dad."

" - and his face pressed against Violet's window. I had a good chat with the lad, he seemed like a decent enough bloke." he says, chewing his food enthusiastically as he talks, the spray of bits from his mouth hitting the table. "You're not keen on him though, are you Vi?"

I grimace, having already anticipated that this is where the conversation would lead. This is a constant area of interest for my parents, my love life - or lack of. They have conflicting views on it though; my mother would like nothing more than for me to finally settle down with a partner of her choice while my dad wants me to remain single forever. I can't say I'm thrilled with either of these propositions.

"Ugh. Dad, I'm twenty-two! I wish you'd stop asking me if I was keen on a guy every time one of them talks to me, or looks at me, or passes by me without any communication whatsoever." I mutter, preparing my excuses to leave the table but my mother leaps at the chance to find out more about Jimmy.

"What's his name again? Did you say he was Cassandra's nephew? I'll have to pop to the cafe tomorrow and get a glimpse of him!"

I can't take any more. I jump to my feet, picking up my plate to carry it into the kitchen. I can still hear my mother pestering my dad with questions about Jimmy and I decide I don't want to hear it.

I head upstairs to my room because it's the only place in this whole house where I can get any privacy - unless someone charges in without knocking. Maybe I should think about installing a lock?

I kick the door behind me shut, blocking out my family, my frustrations and the rest of the world.

Then I sag into the door frame, ignoring the press of the handle against my spine.

My room has remained the same for most of my life. I've either been too preoccupied to redecorate or my parents have never been able to afford it or I've just generally never cared about what my room looked like until recently.

The ceiling, once a bright white, has faded to an aged yellow, matching the lace on the curtains so thin that the point of closing them has become practically non-existent. The wallpaper still bears a pattern suitable for a person at least ten years below my age range and is so tattered from all the posters I've hung up in my teenage years that it is a miracle I continue to marvel at.

Despite all of this, the carpet is what has suffered the most. In its own right, it is a map of my life; every stain, every burn, every piece if gum that has been trod into the matted material tells a story of my mounting failures. I remember every mark with painful clarity; the time I tried to curl my hair for the first time, the horrific accident in which I tried to balance a scolding bowl of soup on my bare arm, that dismal attempt at painting my toenails a bright turquoise - every blemish on that discoloured floor is a betrayal of my poor judgments. It is the carpet that I am most ashamed of, though not because of its present state - more because of the information about me that a person can possibly glean from it. Mostly, I suspect they will think that I enjoy living among filth.

I'm not proud of this room. It represents the person I used to be - who my parents think I am - not the person I am now.

I just can't figure out how to change how my family see me.