Fragments: X Marks the Spot

This was a bit of an experiment with style, written about four or five years ago, either after reading The Catcher in the Rye or A Complicated Kindness, I can't remember which. The aim was to get a juvenile, rushed writing style to suit a younger more immature narrator. These could possibly work as part of a cohesive story, but for now they are just three fragments that are loosely connected and all (hopefully) written in the same style. 

**Note that these were all supposed to be snippets from a larger story, but I ran with the parts that came to me right away. If I decide to run with this piece, I will be filling them in and making the whole thing more cohesive and easier to understand. 

            If you made a map of my life, there would be a big X where I was 14 years old. X marks the spot where I almost gave a shit. I'd never really thought about it until then, but my life kind of blows. It was kind of like the time I found out there was no Santa Clause. Maybe some parents played it nice (like there's a nice way to tell your kid you've been lying to them for the first seven years of their life), but my dad didn't go for that bullshit. He came into my room at 5am on a Christmas morning in a Santa suit and told me I'd been naughty and then started taking all my stuff. I screamed bloody murder when he touched my power rangers. But then he took off the costume and laughed and told me I should be relieved because Santa wasn't real and of course I could have my stuff back and hey, did I want to come down and open presents?

            So that's how I felt. About my life sucking, I mean. I'd thought it was ok before so was it a relief to finally know the truth and since there were still some good parts was it like getting presents when you know they were 'Made in China' and not the North Pole?

            Things started to go downhill from there. Not that I'm complaining. Sometimes going downhill can be fun, like when you're skiing or rolling down a hill. One time, my cousin Jon sprained his ankle because his toboggan was on ice and it wouldn't stop and he tried to get off but he did it wrong. I remember watching from the bottom of the hill and knowing that something bad would happen when he hit the ice but watching in awe anyway.

            I'm not sure what kind of downhill I'm on. Maybe my life is picking up momentum or maybe it's just slowly getting worse. I don't care anymore

            I thought things would get better after my sister died. That's something I can't tell my guidance counselor. She would give me that look where she pulls her glasses down her nose, like she's on some low-budget episode of CSI. Then she'd ship me off to the looney bin to go hang with my mom, or worse, call my dad. Then he'd show up and we'd talk about what a hard time I'm going through and he'd cry and we'd all hug and boo hoo. But then we'd get home and he'd send me to my room and tell me how much he was paying for therapy and why couldn't I just try and why couldn't I be more like -

            It's strange to be the only one still alive . I once asked my dad if he had the chance to choose who got to live, would I still be standing here? He said Andrew... and I think he meant to say more but then he turned around and left.

            I don't know why people are so afraid of dying alone. When you die alone, you don't have to see the looks on their faces when they stand by your bedside. I don't know what would be worse - the hopelessness, or the hope.

            Dylan and Chloe had it different ways. Dylan died quickly. Hit and run. Chloe wasted away in front of all of us, watching the hope fade slowly from our faces.

           

            Chloe was a tidal wave. Before she yelled, she'd always suck her breath in, exaggerate it, give us fair warning to plug our ears.

            She liked sunrises, but not sunsets. She wasn't a morning person, so she always missed the sunrises.

            She was born at 12:05 on March 1st on a leap year. She always liked to hear this story then say, Phew! Close call! I might have only been 3 years old today!

            She always opened her eyes underwater, even if we were in a swimming pool and it made her eyes sting for an hour after.

            She would only eat blue and green smarties, but had to eat each colour individually. When she got sick, she joked that the red ones would have cured her.

            She didn't laugh at jokes; she slapped her knee and her shoulders shook, but she barely made a sound. Sometimes, I add sound to my memory, like dubbing a movie, but it feels wrong.

            Dylan was none of those things. He was six years older than me, barely in the house by the time of the Christmas incident. He wasn't into drugs, wasn't into gangs or partying or alcohol. He just wasn't into families.

            I never knew where he disappeared to. The park? The library? Those seemed too tame. Dylan was quiet but never boring.

            He played trumpet all through middle school and high school. He liked to practice but he didn't like to perform. He would stay up until midnight practicing, but he failed every playing test he ever took because he refused to play.

            He put up a screen in our room for privacy. When he was old enough to have his own room he put up the screen in front of his door so you couldn't see him at first when you walked in.