Saturday, 22 December 2007
10:48:18 PM (GMT)
Time is an extraodinary thing. It cannot be fooled, it cannot be lied to, and you'll
never be able to escape it. Time is there to break you, to fix you, and to keep you
going. What time cannot do, is teach you how to live. Instead, it pressures you, it
waits impatiently, and all you can do is try to keep up. You need to hope and dream,
because hope never abandons you. You abandon it. You expect too much in it, and it
leaves you disappointed. Though, everyone gets disappointed in their lost dreams.
It's part of how we function. Then, there's jealousy. There's looking at that one
person, and thinking to yourself, "They have my life". Still, nothing changes what
you've already got, and negative thoughts swarm you as you rest, ungrateful of your
already loving surroundings.
Stories, memoirs, biographies, you name it, I read it. It was my obsession. I
couldn't stop. They were the worlds I could escape into. I became apart of them.
Story by story, I took myself farther away from reality. It was the only way to be
another person, it was the only way I knew how to live.
I don't know how and I don't know why I changed, but slowly, I'm beginning to accept
myself. I tell myself it all started with my brother, Ryan's death. It was as if one
gun shot to someones head could manipulate my own and rearrange everything I once
knew. I want to say he was the best brother I could have ever had. I want to say he
was always there for me, and I for him, but, I'd be lying. We never got along.
It happened three years ago. It was the year I became a teenager, he was sixteen. He
always reminded me that noone understood him, and he stayed locked up in his room for
weeks at a time. Each time he left the room he looked more and more frail, more and
more out of place, but I took no notice to him. I wasn't about to let him ruin what I
He did whatever he could to get away from us. That's when I started noticing the
books. He brought them in by the dozen at the end of his last few months. I noticed
fairytales, war stories, anything he could get his hands on, most of them being
abnormally large. Most them were stolen. I don't know how I knew that, I just did.
Even my parents started noticing his change. Dinner was never the same. He barely
touched what was given to him, instead he curled himself up at the end of the table,
reading at great speed. My father eyed him, waiting for him to recognize what he was
doing, but Ryan never looked up.
I remember clearly the last time I saw his big, green eyes glitter and his smile
shine. I remember running upstairs into my room after a long walk around the block.
He was sitting messily on my bed, patches of his dark brown hair was projecting out
and his jeans were comfortably rolled up revealing his slim pale legs. He didn't
speak to me. He just looked at me as if he was waiting for me to look back his whole
life. He watched me carefully walk over to him, willing me to argue, but I bit my
tongue and he drew me into him with a hug that lasted a lifetime. I took it as an
apology for all the years he ever left me alone, for all the years he didn't act like
a brother to me. I didn't know what it really was: His last goodbye.
"You're a beautiful girl, Natasha." His last words to me. Although he was frail with
barely fitting clothing, his smile was still enough to make a person smile back. He
was a handsome boy, I knew that, but I wasn't going to be the one to give him the
satisfaction by telling him so.
A week after that day I heard the sound that killed my very soul. Everything after
that seemed like a dream. My scream was earpiercing. I watched his hollow eyes as the
blood blanketed him. My mother pulled at me, not letting me get any closer to my lost
brother, then darkness.
The next thing I saw was my fathers face over my own. There was no emotion to it, no
sadness, no joy, no pity, it was just a face. A face that had always watched me grow
up. He looked away from me when he noticed me watching, and he never spoke about that
The funeral was held soon after, how long after I don't know. The days seemed to feel
like years, and the minutes seemed to feel like days. I didn't attend. My
nine-year-old sister, Leala, never forgave me, she could barely look at me, just like
I had barely been able to look at my brother. I cried myself to sleep for weeks. I
was my family's huge disappointment. It was strange how even though Ryan was gone he
was still affecting my life in every way possible. Each week for a year I stole a
book from his room, carefully putting it back when I finished, noone ever noticed.
I started to fall in love with reading just as he had. I hid myself behind a book,
just like he had. The only thing I did differently is I didn't let my family notice.
They knew I was much different since that day of terror, but they didn't watch my
behavior as they should have. I snuck out every night till I was fifteen, after i
took up the part of being anti-social. I called fake numbers on my phone and
pretended to talk to "friends" so my father wouldn't notice. They all thought I was
getting right again. My father questioned why they would never stop by. I told them
their parents weren't as lienient as him, and mentioned I went there instead. Those
days, I hid myself at the park on the swings letting the wind take hold of me.
My sixteenth birthday was forgotten. Noone called, noone rememered. I was fine with
it, it brought less attention to me. I spent that day in my brothers room, going
through all his notes, all his plans, all his actions. He had beautiful words, much
potential as well. If only he knew.
Now being almost seventeen years old, I'm here to tell my story. They say it helps
getting it out on paper, and now it will not only be apart of myself, but apart of
someone else, too. Maybe my story will affect someone as deeply as it has affected
me. They say you can only change the world one action, and one person at a time. So,
here's my last shot.