Baby Brother

How can I smooth it out with the people at school? All they witness is me coming in and running around the place smiling and smiling with my bangs hanging low on my forehead, so you can barely see my little green eyes. They see me singing and whistling made-up tunes and dancing with my white, bony elbows. They see me asking inane questions and bouncing off every object and situation with a maniac happiness. Thye see me crashing, screaming, kicking, fainting-- but never, ever actually breaking down. They know what to expect from me. They know how to deal with me. And they know, worst of all, exactly what they think of me.

I have become an undeniable identity here. And I think, This isn’t me. This isn’t me. I want to smooth it over with them and let them know: I’m not being me right now. I’ve been whipped and bludgeoned flat: I don’t even remember what I really ever was. Because you know (...I know you know in the most wounded part of your soul...) how past events can run over you like a wave. And whoever you were you are not anymore. You have to build yourself back up.

Well, past events have killed me, murdered me, shouted at me, made me cower into submission while the smoke of the engine blocks my windpipes. And I am grabbing onto your motionless arm to help me back up.

Because as far as my stunned mind is concerned, we’re still sitting in the back of the car, and have been for about seven months so far. And in the car I’m shifting, seeing the tear of light through the cracked dash board, and wondering why you are not shifting next to me. The quiet light particles filter through and settle on us, but I’m sweating harshly... and you’re not sweating at all.

I’m taking you into me, and we’re going to face these classes together. The bad grades dint our swollen ego but we’re not letting that put us into a bad mood. We’re drawing on desks and watching ghosts crawl along the bathroom walls.

And each one is five years old.

Three feet tall.

Just like me.

In the privacy of a dark stall, with the shadows coursing by in front of me, I am able to admit, “I haven’t yet met a kid that’s quite like you.” Although I know I wouldn’t want to. And when I’ve washed my hands and I re-open the bathroom door-- and the heat of the school hits me again-- I begin to thank the lord for what happened to you. I see the familiar plastic hallway in front of me: I could never do this on my own. Inside your spit-stained shirt we can do anything. It’s the complacency you put into my hands. You’re closer now and I feel your mind swimming next to my own.


So, they don’t know me. They only know you.

You died. Or something. And I swallowed you whole while waiting for you in the crumpled back seat of our old, red Honda. Listen to me speaking to you as I walk home from school, my tote bag massive and heavy on my shoulder.

Hello,
For starters...what?
Okay, five year old in school and let me get this right, she's hanging out with a ghost? Or is this her imaginary friend?
I apologize for not being able to give your piece of work the critique it so rightly deserves but you see, I didn't understand it too well and I wonder if this were from my own fault or yours as a writer. You seemed to be trying to give it that era of mystic and whatnot and you succeeded but maybe a little too much. It was hard to follow, actually. And at one point in time, I thought they were having sex. Seriously.

but I’m sweating harshly... and you’re not sweating at all.

I’m taking you into me,

Totally having sex there! But I guess I am wrong because these are kids and one of them seems to be a ghost. Please clarify this one for me. I'm having a grave difficulty understanding it. Sorry.

-Rena.

Hi there!

This was very sweet--kind of sad, actually, but sweet. I was confused for a while, but it kind of cleared things up for me in the last paragraph. It seems the MC is talking about the memory of his brother. He lost his brother in a car crash, but he will still be remembered. Very sweet. Sad, but sweet.

I don't really understand why we're taking place at a school though. Why does it matter that everyone's five years old and such? Perhaps I missed this point of the narrative, but I don't see any relation between the setting and the point. Unless you're continuing this? Which leads me to my next point:

I wonder if this is a story or just a memoir of some sort, a narrative. If it's a story, there's no plot at all and should probably hint at it here. If it's a memoir, then clarify the school thing again. Stick the MC somewhere that reminds the MC of their brother they lost. That would make much more sense than randomly being a school with a bunch of five-year-olds.

And finally, if the kid's five, he doesn't sound five. At all. He wouldn't be thinking so metaphorically about his brother. This is more of an independent 14/15-year-old who keeps to themselves all the time. A five-year-old can feel like how it's portrayed here, but it definitely wouldn't think like this. It doesn't have that big of a vocabulary or that firm of a grasp on the English language to make any such deductions it made here.

That's all I've got. It's very sad and sweet, but with some revision, you'll have yourself a nice piece.

Keep writing!

Jabber, the One and Only!