Pride.

Chapter 2 - George

How hard is it to care about what your child does?
How hard is it to pay attention for 5 minutes?
How hard is it to be a good parent?

These three question tumbled around in the small, opinionated space that was George McConnely's mind. Staring, blankly at the small, retro television screen, not really listening to the disembodied voices whose bodies they belonged to were smothered with static, she expertly contained her impatience. Impatience, for the inconsiderate, child-like adults that had claimed the title of her parents, who were ever so focused in trying to make out a sex scene happening on the television, that they were blatantly ignoring her protests for attention.

It's not like their attention was her drug she couldn't go one night without injecting into her vein. BUT WAS IT TOO MUCH TOO ASK FOR FIVE MINUTES???!!!!

Finally, she casually dropped the remote from the arm rest of the old, patched couch, onto the the rough, stained carpet that only covered half of the living room. As the batteries popped out, and the television blinked itself into darkness, her parents' heads sharply swerved left, right, upwards and downwards, searching for the remote. She cleared her throat, and casually said,

"So, I would like to mention how I got the part I wanted in the school play."

George nervously (for you never could expect what reaction her parents would have) lifted her gaze from the carpet, to her parents still wandering gazes and turning faces.

"Are you happy for me, mother and father?"

George's father groaned, dragging his hairy hand across his tired face, aged from hard, unappreciated work. So instead, her mother answered, in her brittle, cold voice.

"Georgina, it is impossible for one being to take on the emotional baggage of another being. Try to be logical in your questioning, and then maybe you might get the desired answer. For now, I would request you brush up on your studying, so as you can try to imitate your sister."

George's mother, in her thin, fragile body, raised up from the couch, and walked with her spindly legs, down the hall towards her and her husbands bedroom. George's father, hunched over in pain from his arthritis, followed suit soon after. George still sat on the couch, still processing her mother's words.

Impossible.
Logical.
Imitate.
Sister.

Always about Meghan, the perfect daughter, the perfect friend, the perfect student, the perfect girlfriend, but the not-so-perfect sister.

"............"
"............"

.................

"It would be nice to do the impossible."