content || one direction

one

Chapter One: Am I Even Real?

For the past three hours, well since I woke up around two in the afternoon, it has been nothing but swears and constant yelling shared between my younger brother and me. We're playing Call of Duty: Black Ops and the little shit won't let me win. Despite the fact that I'm continuously blocking the screen, shoving his face away and even ended up throwing his controller across the room twice. I can't win.

"If this was Mario Kart, I'd kick your ass," I spoke through clenched teeth. Still, I'd probably lose.

I was attempting to jump on top of some building, but this stupid game kept running me into the wall, which resulted in Mitch killing me multiple times. Mitchell laughed hysterically saying something about my losing tendencies and I flipped him off.

"We're home!" My mother's voice rang throughout the house.

No one will understand how fast my ass left the uncomfortable carpet, followed by me throwing the controller for the Xbox to my brother. He already knew what to do, placing it in a nearby basket. Somehow, I managed to scramble my way towards the door, my mouth hanging low at the sight of my younger brother's room. "Fuck."

Mitchell's eyes met mine, and the sound of our parent's footsteps gradually came closer by the second. With each step, my heart sunk lower into my stomach and I'm more than sure Mitch's was doing the exact same thing.

"Help me," he mouthed.

There were candy wrappers, chip bags, and various different items scattered across his room. They were all probably where they were now from me getting frustrated and tossing things in his line of vision, and at his head, while missing horribly.

A smile appeared on my face, as an idea popped into my mind. This is for beating me in Call of Duty, and stealing my hot Cheetos, you bitch. Mitchell must have noticed the devious look plastered on my face and he started pleading for me to help him, and a corrupted laugh escaped from my throat.

"Paybacks a bitch," I snickered, leaving his room hastily. My feet sprinted down the hall to my room, to prevent from getting caught. You didn't sprint; you're too lazy for that much effort. Well, as fast as a Seda sprint could be.

It probably looked like an old lady power walk, and it ended with a leap of faith landing half of my body on my bed, well my old bed since I don't live here anymore, not since I started college anyway. It may sound easy, but do not let anyone fool you.

Let me tell you, it is f*cking heartbreaking to not have a quality home-cooked meal ready for you when you get home. A few nights after I moved in, I came home and threw my bag on the floor and went straight to the kitchen table, and sat there for at least two hours. Apparently, when I told my Mom that she needs to make me food to survive on my own, I was the only one in that agreement.

Tears nearly escaped my eyes when the thought of making my own food, no, burning your own food, came to my mind. I had pizza that night and cried. Not because of the fact that my mom didn't take me seriously, because the pizza was so damn good.

The horrible flashback, which nearly brought tears to my eyes, was overshadowed by the yelling of my mother's voice coming from down the hall. It brings a big smile to my face to see that little dweeb get in trouble, since it's usually me.

Don't think I'm evil or something, I am. No, I love my brother, we just express our love in different and unusual ways, you know?

"You idiotic, stupid, whore!" Mitchell knocked on my door, repeatedly.

Translation; "You sweet, kind, and loving sister!"

"Mom and Dad went to go get your fat ass take out, get out here so I can hit you with this broom for pulling that bullshit!"