Narrative By The Great One

Smack!

My sister's chubby fist hit me in the face, right above my eye. I drew back, hurt but unfazed. She already had a handful of my hair in her fists. Her fingers looked hungry for more.

"You fat shit! You're a great big fatso! And mom hates you!" Then she kicked me in my stomach and I fell down, gasping for air. Her hands liberated a few more follicles from the back of my head.

I had neither said nor done anything to her. I knew why she had done it. She wanted to test my Grandfather. It was the first time he had ever watched us. She had wanted to know if he would stop it. She was pushing limits.

Looking my Grandfather in his cold, icy blue eyes, my sister spit on me, pushed me down with her foot, and then ran upstairs to her room laughing and insulting me all the way up. I began to cry. My Grandfather sat and watched me.

It wasn't the pain that made me cry. I had been hit many times before, and had since gotten used to it. It was that my Grandfather had sat there and done nothing. I had expected more from him. Scalp bleeding, my nose covered in snot, I eventually collected myself and stood up. I had long ago learned to stop complaining. Nobody ever gave a shit.

My Grandfather stood at the kitchen counter, a towel folded over his shoulder turning on a few burners. I walked by him with my head down. His hand on my chest stopped me.

"She does that to you a lot, doesn't she?" There was no sympathy in my Grandfather's voice. He had never been sympathetic to anybody in his entire life. I guess having a mother who is literally a witch will do that to you. I didn't say anything.

"Well, boy? Answer me. How often does she hit you?"

I rubbed the snot from underneath my nose with the cuff of my sleeve and mumbled. He nodded and patted me on the back.

"You're bigger than she is now. You know that, right?" I nodded. "Your parents won't let you fight back will they?" I nodded again.

My Grandfather was a very frightening man. On most days his face had a slight glower to it, but when enraged, his eyes looked like they had been chiseled out of the heart of a thundercloud. Standing even a few feet away from him, I could almost feel the force of his anger radiating away from his body. He turned back to the stove. The burner could never have hoped to be as hot as the blood in his veins. "I'm going to be making some omelets, kiddo. I'll be occupied for about fifteen minutes. Don't want to ruin them, you see. I suppose I might let anything go by unnoticed. Hell, I'm old Brandon. Who's to say I could hear someone yelling in this house?"

Even at that age I could understand what he was saying. "What about my parents?"

His voice as cold as the grave, and as hard as tombstone marble, my Grandfather replied: "Just you let me worry about your parents." I have never been so glad that I was not my parents.

As though in a dream, I made my way upstairs. I was floating. I was neither euphoric nor sad. I was simply too shocked to feel anything at all. I was going to beat the shit out of my sister.

I pushed her door open without knocking. I felt like a soldier in an invading army. I was not in my own territory. I was in the lair of the beast. It was kill or be killed.

"What the fuck do you want, Brandon?" Her mouth was surrounded by melted chocolate. She had stolen the chocolate bar my Grandfather had bought for me. She had already eaten her own.

I looked at her from the doorway, my shadow growing longer.

She snorted in disgust, and began to lick her fingers. Her fat stomach pressed against the prison of her clothes.

All at once I found myself screaming. It was an inarticulate howl of repressed rage. My sister turned to face me, one of her fingers trailing lazily at the corner of her mouth.

I rushed.

I pounced.

I flew on top of her and hit her in the face with all of my might. We were like two cats convulsing under the force of an electric current. Eventually I positioned myself on top of her with my hand held around her throat. She looked up at me full of fear, her nose bleeding for the first time ever by my hand. I hit her sharply, with all my weight, across her jaw.

She blacked out.

I got off of her and quietly straightened my hair. My knees were shaking.

As I walked downstairs I put my hand to my ear and it came back red with blood. My whole body felt tight and hot. I was going to be a mass of bruises in the days to come. Finally, I made my way into the kitchen. A stool found its way under my ass and I sat down.

Putting a plate in front of me, my Grandfather said nothing as he finished my omelet and slid it out of the pan.

"She still alive up there, kiddo?" Squirting a bottle of ketchup on my breakfast I nodded. My Grandfather patted me on the back so hard I winced. "I'm betting she leaves you alone for a long time after this."

He was right. She never touched me again.

Random Thought of The Day

I say if people can get plastic surgery so that they have Angelina Jolie's lips or Johnny Depp's cheek bones, then I can get Lassie's tail. I might run into a problem of people always wanting to follow me and i'd go crazy and be like "Listen fuck it's just Lassie's tail, there's no trouble down at the old mill, there is no old mill anymore it's a fucking walmart." Plus it'd be hard for me to fake it that i give a shit that some kid is stuck in a well and that i'm supposed to save his ass. I'd be like "Here kid catch here's a bag of chips and a blanket i'm off to the bar."