Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 140896 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 704(@200wpm)___ 564(@250wpm)___ 470(@300wpm)
“And some people repress it to death, like your dear Bran.”
Her brow furrows and her lips part the slightest bit. So she knows that his ridiculous attempts at painting nature is a camouflage. Seems she’s more in tune with us than I previously thought.
Interesting, and not for the right reasons. I need to be more elusive so she doesn’t see what’s inside me and decide I don’t belong to her little minion prodigies.
“Bran is…” she trails off and wipes the sweat on her upper lip. “Different. He just needs time. When he’s ready, it’ll all work out.”
“It makes sense for him to be delusional, but you don’t even believe what you’re saying. I suggest you practice your acting skills in front of the mirror before you broach the subject with him.”
“Don’t speak to me in that tone, Lan.” She’s pretending to be stern when she can’t do that to save her life.
Mum is all about love, peace, and a million colorful, useless slogans that revolve around harmony. Since we were young, she’s tried to create this picture-perfect family, where we all get along and no one pokes the other member the wrong way.
The result of that effort is obviously the fluid relationship between Bran and Glyn. Me, however? I love poking more than breathing. I can’t survive a day without rubbing someone the wrong way and making them question their entire flimsy existence.
My siblings and parents aren’t excluded. What? It’s not my fault they like to be a cheap reincarnation of Little Miss Ostrich. I don’t like them burying emotions, repressing, or acting like something they’re not. So I shove them here and give them a slice of reality there.
They hate me for it, except for my mum, who still tolerates my shenanigans, but they still need the wake-up call.
I accept thanks in the form of tough love, thank you very much.
“I’m just offering innocent advice, Mum.” I grin at the screen. “I’ve got to meet a professor. Say hi to Dad and everyone.”
“Will do. Don’t cause trouble, Lan.”
“Never.”
More like I absolutely will.
I don’t cause trouble; trouble caused me.
On that note, I end another successful phone call with my mother.
When I was younger, I didn’t realize that letting one’s true nature out was taboo and could be categorized as social suicide. Especially when it’s full of antisocial bollocks.
And while I was completely fine being my beautiful, destructive self, I soon realized I was the reason behind my mother’s distress and my father’s case of epic confusion.
He tried to rein me in by being stern, which failed miserably and backfired. Then he attempted to become my friend, and that only bit him in the arse, because I thought he was giving me the green light to use him. In the end, he was left with no practical solutions to deal with me.
As a last resort, when I was ten and I nearly burned down my school, my parents took me to professionals. The group of pretentious psychiatrists and psychotherapists plugged wires to my head and asked me dumb questions.
My answers to those questions landed me the diagnosis of antisocial disorder, and a brain scan showed mine wasn’t wired like everyone else’s.
I remember the stony expression on my parents' faces so well. They didn’t show it openly, but I could tell the news upset them beyond words.
They still took me for ice cream afterward and treated me the same. They still considered me their son, despite the fact that I felt alienated.
I was around twelve when I realized the house was in a state of shambles due to my fuck-the-world attitude. I couldn’t possibly let that state fester, now, could I?
So I’ve worn a mask since. I took the useless therapy and pretended that I could be fixed. I convinced myself, while trying not to gag, that all I needed was peace, love, and family.
That’s also when I realized people, including your own family, don’t really like you for what or who you are. It’s all about how you make them feel.
Ever since I started wearing the mask of societal standards, the few wrinkles I added to my parents’ faces have eased a little, and I’m, in a way, their favorite—when Bran isn’t channeling the saint he thinks lurks inside him.
My siblings, however, didn’t get the merciful version of my otherworldly transformation. I don’t like them making fools out of themselves, and I might have taken drastic measures to make sure they’re not acting like idiots.
What? It reflects badly on my pristine image.
I leave the art studio, and even though I’m running on more sleep deprivation than a seasoned hooker, I greet my colleagues, comment on their atrocious edgy clothes, and make small talk with my current and previous professors, who would worship me if I started a cult.
All the social interactions are a strain, painfully empty, and hold the importance of a used napkin. And yet I’m an excellent conversationalist and the holy messiah of charming others.