Red ✔

The Older, The Harsher

Hands catch my wrist but end up falling along with me. I land on the hardwood floor. My spine feels like it disconnected. This is what I get for going to a boy's house to do homework. Great, just great. I open my eyes, realizing I was shutting it so tightly that tears formed to blind my sight. My vision gradually comes back to me. Clive's nose is at least a centimeter away. I stay motionless, despite the uncomfortable position we are in. I stare into his eyes, suddenly entranced. I notice a small scar on his forehead. It is a deep gash but is healed with a few stitches. I guess his bangs do a good job of hiding that. I wonder when he got it.

He rolls off and pulls me up. Electrical currents strike through my body up to my shoulders. The prickling is poking against my skin. It is not going away any time soon.

“Did you just shock me?" Just to make sure.

"No," he replies. Okay, so I am hallucinating. 

"Stupid magazines." I kick them lightly.

"Violent, violent." He shakes his head at me.

"Like you are not violent," I point out. I am right, he is. We have had so many wrestles, I lost count after thirty-three. We have had at least two to six each month. It grew less each year as we matured, well except in the grade seven year.  I was a real rascal then.

He rubs his imaginary beard. "You are right I am violent." He nods with mischief read all over his face. He tickles my waist. I do a high pitched scream.

"Oh no you didn't," I cry.

I have not lost a battle with him. I lock both of his arms with my hand and then jab his sides.

He yelps like a girl. I laugh.

There is knock on the door. We scramble ourselves back to our normal placement. "What are you guys doing?" His mom comes in. We hesitate. "I thought you guys were working on a project," she says, grinning suspiciously. You can tell she knows the entire story.

Clive's mom is so cool. If my dad was here he will be giving his big lectures right in front of Clive...Well, it is not like Clive did not hear them before when he was lecturing us when we were causing World War 3.

"We are having a little break," Clive confirms.

"More like a wrestling fight." She shuffles downstairs while looking at us pointedly.

"She is a bit nosy," Clive informs me.

I chuckle. "It's okay. My brother is like that too." He raises his eyebrow at me. "Overprotective." He nods as if he understood. He surely does not. He is an only child. Alex might be incredibly provoking, but I will not replace him for being an only child.  He is my other sane half. 

"Clive!" his mom calls him from downstairs, infuriated. "What is this?!"

He has a fretful look on his face. "Oh no," he mutters under his breath. "Um...I have to see what she wants."

"Okay, I will be here." I show him a thumbs up. 

I slump on his bed, staring at the ceiling. How did I get into Clive McNeil's room, after all those brutal years? He is nicer, less competitive, easy going, and, most of all, funny. I used to laugh at his jokes sarcastically, so that does not really count. I run my fingers over the covers, feeling the brittle surface. I feel something hard under the covers. I sit up and take out an abstract book from under the sheets. It has a few scratch marks on the corners and a dent on the spine. It is sticky and dusty and feels nasty under my touch. I wipe the icky guck with a napkin that is on the night table. The latch on it is unlocked, so it is practically giving me a signal to open it. I am only going to look at it for a little bit. That won't do anyone harm, right? I curiously open the first page. His mom is right his writing is illegibly messy. I manage to read the date; it dates back to 2006. I read his first entry, barely: