Hardly Artistic

[Helena Beaumanoir]

Remember in my introduction I said I loved writing?

Well, this is the hideous by-product of having no Internet and quarrelling with my brothers.


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My twin's too god-damned nervous, all the time. He clings to my skirt, smelling of whatever hard candy he's been sucking all afternoon, whimpering about the woman who tried to talk to him, to ask him where his mommy was.

He moans miserably in my ear, the fucking scaredy-cat, and I'm ashamed I have his face. I'm only three seconds older than him, three-goddamn-moments, but somehow, I've turned into more than an older sister.

I've been turned into a God, a protector, no matter how many times I yank away the cloth from his shaking hands, shove his face into dirt, make him choke on sand while trying to inhale, bawling like a fucking baby.

Coward, I call him. That's practically his name now: coward, yellow-belly, stupid, idiot, moron. Yet he comes to me like a dog, flocks to me like I'll actually tell him something nice, like I'll actually smile and nuzzle him like our cunt mother did, before she left us the park and never came back.

She told me to look after him. Well, I'm looking after him, alright. I'm always watching him, though I don't exactly take care of him. The red candy has painted his tongue, until there's only a tiny marble caught between rows of stained baby teeth, and I tell him, Coward, spit that out, you don't know where it's been.

And my brother does, letting the candy drop out of his mouth, gritty with the same sand covering his feet. He mumbles, stammers something about going on the swings, sprinting towards them, getting sand in my eye. Bastard.

He's been on those swings a thousand times this month: it's his daily routine, no matter how mind-numbing it is. I think those swings have probably already rattled whatever brain cells he's got left.

I glance down at the hard candy he left behind, still sticky with saliva, half buried in sand.

My brother's a fucking idiot. But I'm even stupider than him, though we came from the same womb, the same mother who fucked her brother.

I'm an idiot for not leaving while I had the chance, now that's he's become too attached, considers me his little saviour in stained petticoats and unravelling woollen mittens.

The sun's high, the sidewalks wet with dropped ice cream and the damp footprints of tiny brats (they squeal so hard it's like they're dragging a nail across your eardrum), people everywhere. On the benches, on the swings, gorging themselves at the picnic tables, not sparing a second glance to the pair of dark-skinned kids without a mother.

I'm sure Coward wouldn't notice if I took off now.

There's a woman now, her and her panting bitch, sitting in the shade of tree. Her skin matches mine, and though she looks only twice my age, she could pass for my mother.

Coward's getting himself sick on the swings. It's hot out, I'm sweating, and my fake mother is right there. All I have to do is sit down, start playing in the grass a few feet from her, and then, soon enough, follow her out.

He calls me sister, baby doll saviour darling, not God, but I know how he feels all the same. And I'm not dying, bloody and torn, on any cross for his fuck-ups.

There's a high screech of mirth from behind me, and the woman's leaving, standing, putting her dumb beast on a leash. I glance back, my idiotically devout follower still occupied.

Carefully merging with the throng of children, I grab a scrap of her skirt, hold my breath, but the dog doesn't growl, the woman doesn't look down.

And I know, fucking coward, fucking Coward, that if he saw, he'd do something stupid. Like cry. Or beg, or whine, or try to go after me.

Which is why I get out of there as fast as I can, while I can.