❝I could rip your heart out and not think twice about it.❞
❝Do it. If you're so goddamn convinced that you're the bad guy, then just do it.❞
❝I can't, Avi, don't you get it? You're the one person on this entire hellhole of a planet that I cannot hu...
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AARAVI VARMA ❝ should i be having the sheriff on speed-dial? ❞
┗━━ ◥ ✥ ◤ ━━┛
BLOOD HAS GROWN TO BECOME a natural element of my life, one that I'm used to on a daily basis. The metallic scent it brings with it, the rich copper that overwhelms the senses in strong bouts — it does not bother me the way it does most people.
I guess that is the uncanny result of my parents' successful surgical careers and my childhood having blossomed in the midst of hospital wards instead of the safety of a loving home. Exposure to blood from a young age has practically desensitised me to it.
"You'd make a great surgeon," my parents say, drilling that concept into my head every other day. It has gotten to the point where I cannot see myself doing anything but that. My life has already been written and I am simply a passenger along for the ride. That is the way it has always been.
Sometimes, I feel much older than my age, like I am an adult stuck in the body of a high-school student. With the expectations resting upon my shoulders, it is futile to feel any younger. I can't say I love it.
September 7th.
Today marks the first day of school, the beginning of junior year — unfortunately, it is also the day I had been birthed seventeen years ago. I have been awake since four o'clock, not from excitement at ageing another year, but due to the awfully lovely wake-up call that is the latest addition to the family.
Aryan barely covers the length of my forearm when I hold him but he sure does pack an incredible set of lungs in that tiny body of his. Despite being three rooms over, his cries are deafening. I have conceded to the fact that there is no way I will be able to get a restful sleep any time in the next year or so.
My eyes trace the minute cracks in the ceiling, a dull attempt to block the noise pollution as I lay in bed. Time ticks by much slower than I'd have liked it to, and the bubble of resentment increases in size with each passing second.
Why did my parents think it was a good idea to have another child? To torture themselves since work hasn't been stressful enough? To torture me for having accepted my life with a grudging reluctance? Or has it simply been a mistake that they couldn't rectify due to their ethical morals?
As soon as the last thought slips into the forefront of my mind, I immediately regret it. My brother is not a mistake. I do love him, of course I do. His calm, playful baby self is quite endearing. It isn't possibly his fault that I'm perpetually immersed in a black mood — not even if he cannot shut his little mouth.
