The Most Hated of Burdens
My little brother, Jonathon, came into the world on the fourteenth of September. Being only four years old, the significance of this event could not sink into me. Years later my mother revealed to me that during the birthing process, I began shrieking horribly due to a lack of attention.
I turned over on my side and began scratching the dried up moisture out of my eyes. The green electronic clock on my nightstand read nine o’ clock. Reluctantly I scrambled out of bed, tripping over a couple of T-shirts strewn on the brown carpet. Before I opened my door to go downstairs, I caught a glimpse of myself in the dirty mirror clinging from my wall. Whiskers found their way onto my face, the boyish face gone for good. “So this is what it’s like to be sixteen,” I thought aloud to myself. As soon as I set foot downstairs, the smell of sausage and hash browns overwhelmed my senses. Jonathon strolled over the yellow tile, seating himself at the bar and began actively engaging in some stupid conversation about African elephants with my mother. For some reason, I’ve always harbored bitterness and spite towards him. We have never shared the relationship that most people would expect two brothers to share with each other. Basically I didn’t even consider him my brother, furthermore I always thought of him as another human being who shared my household, and by pure coincidence spawned out of my mother’s womb. As I walked out of the kitchen to go start up my green ‘99 Ford Mustang, he uttered a casual “good morning” to me. I stopped and stood there, still as a statue, and mute as Queen Elizabeth’s personal sentries. I rapidly searched my brain for a response that would be adequate, and represent my disdain for him. Finally I simply chose to disregard his remark, and continue onward to the musty garage.
I cautiously pulled into my brand new driveway, jumping out of my hybrid to check the mail and start on the chicken marinara sitting on my counter....