Super Freaky Girl

Freaky 1

Iris'

"Kuya, kakain na raw sabi ni daddy!"

The relentless banging on my door made my teeth clench harder. I turned up the volume of my speaker letting my playlist blast louder, para hindi ko marinig ang ingay ng pagkatok niya lalo pa't tinawag niya akong 'kuya'. The fuck my younger brother think he is? The President? Hanggat hindi niya ako tinatawag na 'ate', hindi ko siya pagbubuksan ng pinto.

The sharp beat pounded against my skull as I stared at the screen of my phone, lips pressed so tightly together I was sure I'd crack a tooth.

Sino ba ang hindi mabu-bwisit? I mean, aside from my brother still calling me by the wrong pronoun—like, hello, get it together?—I'm currently busy staring at the newly uploaded IG story of Alas. The torment of my existence. My future husband, kung bibigyan natin ng label ang mga bagay-bagay.

He just posted another selfie with a girl.

"Kuya, tangina. Kakain na nga raw!"

This time? Some basic bitch with a sun-kissed glow and fake freckles like she stumbled out of a Pinterest board for "natural beauty." Eh kung ikiskis ko kaya 'yung bagong bili kong wet wipes sa mukha niya? Ugh. She had that grinning, doe-eyed look that screamed, "Pick me! Magaling ako!"

I swipe the story up, hovering over the "Reply" button. My thumb twitches. No. I won't give him the satisfaction of knowing how much this burns. He isn't mine—YET—but does he really have to rub every fucking little fling in my face? I mean, I know he probably isn't doing it on purpose, but in my world, if it happens to me, it's personal. Period.

"ATE, KAKAIN NA NGA RAW!"

Iryassar's voice shatters through the music and my spiraling thoughts.

I roll my eyes—again. I must look like an overworked slot machine. Can this day get any worse? With the air of someone doing charity work, I slam my phone down on my plush bed and strut to the door.

Throwing it open, I lean against the frame, arching one perfectly sculpted brow.

"What?" My voice drips with boredom, every syllable laced with disdain.

Iryassar stands there, his messy hair sticking out like he's just wrestled a tornado.

"Tangina! Ang kupad mong bakla!"

"Ang kupad mong bakla," gaya ko sa boses niyang asar talo while crossing my arms. My brother balled his fist, all dramatic, and before he could even try whatever big tough guy move he was thinking of, I slammed the door in his face.

Napailing na lamang ako sa mga kalokohan ko.

Dinner at our estate is always an affair, though not always one of grandeur. Tonight, the dining room is glowing with soft amber lights that catch on the edges of the crystal glasses and glint off the polished silverware. Our dining table is a statement of old-world elegance, carved mahogany stretching far enough that it feels more like a conference room than a place for eating.

And yet, for all its splendor, it's just... home.

Nakaupo ako sa aking usual spot, center stage as always, with my elbows defiantly resting on the white linen tablecloth. I'm swirling my glass of Pellegrino—not because I care about mineral water, but because it makes me look effortlessly sophisticated.

Across the table, my younger brother, Iryassar, is eating his food like the prepubescent gremlin he is. What's wrong with Gen Z's, really? Eme!

To my left, Elisar, my oh-so-perfect older brother, is cutting the steak with his knife like he's performing open-heart surgery.