Brothers

Hi my names Lucas, I’m 13 years old and live in Millers Point. I live with my best friend, Gelar, and his auntie. I attend St Andrews collage; I’m on a scholarship. My life looks great, as if it’s traveling in the right direction. But it wasn’t always like this, it all started when I was four. My mum died in a car accident with my dad at the wheel. They were at a wedding that night, while I was at home with the baby-sitter. It was cold and foggy, and both, mum and dad, had had a bit too much to drink. This was often the case with my father. They decided to drive home. As they left the damp, black, car park, the streets seemed empty. My parents were merely three kilometers from our house when it happened. The car was found early the next morning wrapped around a tree. My father survived.

We learnt to live together. He wouldn’t get in my way and I wouldn’t get in his, he wasn’t so much of father, but more of a ‘baby-sitter’. He would care for me as if it was his job and nothing more. Most night’s dad would drink, and leave it up to me to pick up the pieces. It was all a routine. We had a small house in Shellharbour, cozy and all, but it still felt empty without mum. My father was a lackadaisical man, he was fairly tall and almost always had stubble around his face. He took the form of a retired sports star, who had let him-self go. He was overweight, but still seemed overpowering. Dad would often disappear, for weeks at a time and leave me with hardly enough money to survive.

On one particular day, I was putting the rubbish out, it was cold, and the bag was heavy so I was rushing to get back inside. As I heaved the heavy, unpleasant smelling bag in to the, overflowing bin, I heard a young boy crying.

As I turned to look, I saw an ingeniousness looking young man, sitting in the gutter. He looked skinny and weary; his cloths were dirty and wet. He seemed to be around my age maybe younger, but it may have been because he was so thin. I hesitated, and then went over to him. I asked him what was wrong and attempted to comfort him. He stopped crying slowly and began to explain what had happened, he told me that he’s mother had passed away and that he was left alone in this world. He explained that his father had never been around, and that he was a ‘half cast’. Hearing this was like, reliving the sorrows of my own mother’s death. I began to get teary and explained my situation to the boy. With this I invited him into my house. My father had left again and left me just enough money for eight or nine days.

As we climbed the wet stairs, the wind picked up and blew the cold night air into our very souls. We both continued in silence, with understanding and compassion for each other. The boy looked over at me and simply said “Gelar” in a soft voice. Although it caught me off guard I replied in the same tone, “ Lucas”. At this point we were at the door of my house. We have spoken very little to each other and we had just met, and yet, I feel like he’s my closest friend, or, as it may be, my only one.

“Wanna come in mate?” I said, knowing very well the answer. The mutual understanding was evident. We both entered the small home, and it seemed that together, we felt a sense of security within it.

There was an old couch; it used to be my mums favourite, but when see passed my father put it in the corner along with the memories of her. Gelar sat in the middle of it. He looked lonely and weak. It was like looking into a mirror.

We got talking, Gelar was a boy of very few words, but when he spoke he had an air of wisdom far beyond his years. That night, Gelar told me of the only living relative he knows. He explained that he had an aunt, who lived in Sydney and that he planned to find and live with her. When I heard this I knew it was only chance to escape this hell. I felt as if it was our only hope and decided to pack a small backpack. I got the money my dad had left me and we left immediately. I knew if we didn’t leave now, we never would. As I opened the door, the cold night breeze slapped me across the face, making my thoughts clear. I knew what I had to do. It was the time of night, where the moon was at its peak in the sky. The silent suburb was eerie and yet we both felt resilient, as wind was at our back.

We sat at the bus stop waiting for an opportunity to start our lives again; we both knew that we had to stick together. The haunting moonlight, combined with the rhythmic flickering of the only streetlight, reflected off the glass of the bus stop. At that moment the bus arrived, we both rose to greet our escape. The numbers 431 were illuminated on the front of the bus, and the final stop was miller’s point, that was where we were heading. The doors opened, Gelar and I entered with caution. What would the bus driver think when two children get on without a parent. It was to late. I walked up to the driver and asked for, “two tickets to millers point, please”

The driver looked up and said “ ar’you with ‘im” gesturing towards Gelar,

“Yes” I replied

“We don’t allow ‘is kind on the bus” he said nastily

“But he’s my brother”. The Driver took the five-dollar note I was holding. He turned with a cold expression towards the road. I knew I wasn’t going to get any change and so did Gelar. This must have happened to Gelar a lot, although we may think our culture is accepting, the wool, it seems, has been pulled over our eyes.

We sat on the forbidding, bitter bus together, huddled on the third seat from the back. The journey was slow and monotonous. It seemed like years, until, at last we arrived. The sun was rising over the Sydney harbour bridge, and we could see our destination. We got off the bus and walked to number 74-windmill street, the city was still asleep. The street was the colour of an autumn leaf as the sun reflected off the warm sandstone walls. We knocked at the door and after ten long seconds it opened, that’s when my life began.

By Andre Frino, and Ella Parkes-Talbot

PTF Books™, pty. ltd.

* Gelar is aboriginal for ‘brother’