“Oh, I’m sorry, is my thinly veiled contempt not thinly veiled enough!” I yelled at the person in front of me, my voice dripping with years and years of practiced sarcasm.
“Oh Rockaway, you poor poor boy. I’m also very sorry for your continued existence. You have no ground to stand on. Do you really think that Mom has so much more confidence in your word, or mine? Who do you think shes going to ask for what really happened?”
My opposition matched me in sarcasm units. I fumed and felt the steam build up. “Why do you have to provoke me! Just stop being such a god damn hypocrite!” I step back and slink in my chair. My opponent languishes herself in a drama pose, hand to her forehead in an act of fake emotions. “Oh the hypocrisy! Oh the terrible hypocrisy!”
Unthinking, I fling my hand out, palm curled up tight. It hits her right in the stomach. She pauses for a twitch, then returns the punch, punch for punch, times five. The punches create a bruise on my shoulder as she launches into her “Don’t Freaking Touch Me” act. “Don’t freaking touch me, you are bigger and stronger, and I am not! You could easily hurt me and then you’ll be sorry.”
No doubt later she would tell Mom later of our encounter, and pull out her fragile self. I swear she could be a star in any acting communities if she applied herself and didn’t use it to terrorize me. She doesn’t care to know that her punches hurt much more than mine do, and that if she wants to punch back, don’t do it to a person who could snap her in half. I think the only way she would ever have lived this long in any other situation is if she could hold her against a much bigger foe. As it is, shes only lived to be fifteen because I don’t have the will to kill her, and too much self-restraint as well. In my quiet spiel, my sister has slunk off to the sofa, most likely to congratulate herself on on her most recent stamp on my inner self.
I get off the chair, and walk to my room. I bet she wonders what for.
