Dark Places

Joy

It's hard being me.

I'm sure I'm not the only one to have ever said that. In fact, I would think that someone is saying those exact words, or thinking the equivalent thought, right now.

Being anyone is difficult, I would think. Life is always tossing us a grenade to juggle, making us centre ring in the Big Top of our own little world. Will we stumble? Will we fumble? The spotlight is shining right down upon us, its beady eye waiting with bated breath to see what might happen.

Not that either spotlights or eyes have breath, bated or otherwise, but I'm sure you get my meaning. I'm not the weaver of words that my brother is. He can crochet a quilt of quips bedded upon a sea of sarcasm. I can't. But then, I didn't have the upbringing he did. He learned, long ago, that jokes were a better defence than his fists.

He wasn't a fighter, my brother, though he was dragged into enough scrapes to build up some small prowess. He learned to duck and to run, more than anything. And when he couldn't, he learned to block and to bounce. He could never, really, bring himself to retaliate. He accepted his fate.

With a name such as his, I'm not surprised. Our parents, our father mainly, took great pleasure in tugging at the immense weight they'd hung about his neck the day they named him. When the school bullies were bored with him and were looking elsewhere for their fun, our father, whose arse is likely not in Heaven, picked up their baton and ran with it.

I don't know about my brother, but I often wonder if they named him such just so they could keep themselves entertained for a few years.

Sometimes, I couldn't help myself. Sometimes I joined in. I'm not proud of that, but it's done now. We all do things we wished we hadn't, but sometimes that little imp gets into the back of your head and just gives you the right - or wrong - nudge. It had happened, admittedly, on more than one occasion, whilst growing up. I'd make fun of his name, goad him, even laugh as he was being beaten.

But I still loved him. He was my baby bro. We'd fall out and we'd bicker, but we were family.

Are family. Is my baby bro. Not past tense. Not yet.

I always knew I was different.

Again, that's something so many others will say and have said. But I was. People liked me.

Yes, I know. Why would that be such a bad thing? It shouldn't be. I should have enjoyed it, embraced it, but I didn't. Not that I was miserable - far from it. I was a fairly happy child. I didn't have the trouble my brother had. In fact, I almost think he sucked the problems from me before they could hit. Took them upon himself. Almost liking stopping a bullet for the president. I had an almost charmed life.

In complete contrast to his.

But it wasn't something I could control. I'd have given him some of my luck if I could have. Some of my... attraction? No, I didn't particularly think I was attractive, not particularly. Maybe pretty, but that was all. By 'attractive' I mean the way people just seemed to like me. They seemed to gravitate towards me, like I was a black hole and they were caught in my pull.

I'd have pushed if I could. Maybe my brother and I were polar opposites. I pulled, he pushed. Or was pushed, in a lot of cases.

I knew I was different. The bullies that beat my brother shouldn't have liked me. The dog that was ready to eat the postman's leg should have wanted my arm for dessert. But the bullies did and the Rottweiler didn't. And they went away with a smile on their faces. Even the dog. Not pretty...

It wasn't too long before I realised that it was the coin. The two pence coin.

See a penny, pick it up and all day long you'll have good luck. That's how the story goes, but not quite so the reality. I saw a two pence. I picked it up. And since then, since the first day, back in school, when I flipped the coin and caught it in the palm of my hand, everyone around me has had good luck.