first love / late spring

𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

__ 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘮𝘣𝘦𝘳 4𝘵𝘩 - 𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘳

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175 days before
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I have no memories from when I was younger. Not even a slight impression of a significant moment that happened in my life before I turned seventeen. There are no embarrassing moments that cling to me like tar, making me toss and turn at night, no distant recollections of a birthday, blowing out candles and making a wish, friends and family smiling around me.

I suppose my brain made me forget most of my youth, locking away some of the good memories along with the bad ones.

All except a few.

The one that always seems to pop into my head first when I'm asked about my childhood is one of the very few memories I have left of my mother.

I hardly remember what she looked like, besides the fact she had the prettiest blonde hair I had ever seen, the sun shining through it at the most opportune times, making her look almost like an angel, and the fact she had the kindest eyes, calming me down effortlessly when I was upset. I remember in the summer, she would take me out to the field behind the church, laying down a tattered patchwork blanket and letting me rest my head in her lap as she read to me, stroking my hair gently. I remember the breeze making my hair blow into my face, tickling my nose. She used to just laugh that sweet laugh of her's and brush it away, continuing with her story. I remember when she got pregnant with my brother, and I couldn't lay in her lap anymore, but she would let me put my small hand on her protruding belly, feeling for any sign of movement, as she placed gentle kisses along my hairline. I remember when she started getting sick, her cheeks sinking in and her olive skin turning a sickly pale grey. Her lips were chapped, and after every other word, she would clear her throat, sometimes she would even have coughing fits that scared the ever-loving fuck out of me. She would wince when she stood up, cradling her ever-growing stomach as she swayed on her feet. After my brother was born, my father never told me she had died, let alone how she had died.

I remember coming home from school, smiling and giddy, ready to see my precious baby brother, but instead I was greeted by the sight of my father, slumped over in his brown leather armchair, his shirt stained and greasy, clutching a beer bottle in his sweaty palm. He didn't acknowledge me when I walked in, continuing to stare blankly at the crackling old television, the light shining on his face.

It was like that for a few more hours, until my brother started crying, hungry, and in need of a clean diaper. I finally worked up the courage to approach my father. I tried getting his attention a few times, softly saying "daddy", but he didn't budge, that was until I gently took a hold of his shirt, pulling on it.

That was the first time my father ever hit me.

People always told me as I got older, that I would make new memories, good ones, bad ones, embarrassing ones. They would tell me "there is a reason for everything in life" and that "God does the things he does for the better of us". Growing up, everyone around me has been a devout Christian, worshipping and living for a god they had never met, a god that controlled their lives, what they should eat, when they had sex, who they loved.

I've always thought they were full of shit, and I've always wanted to prove it, to find the proof they have been worshipping a lie, shove it in their faces and say "where's your God now?".

Vengeance is a sin.

The other memories I have are mostly of my brother, the loud-mouthed, arrogant little shit so happened to be named Travis Phelps. He is cocky, annoying, and sometimes I want nothing more than for him to shut up for more than twelve seconds. But I love him, perhaps more than I'll ever love anybody. The way I love my brother is dangerous, burning with a ferocity of overprotection. It's dangerous because I know someday he will leave, like everyone else, and I will be left empty, like all those other times. Travis covers his ears when he is overwhelmed. He picks and chews at his fingernails. Travis prefers classic literature and hates classic music. He hates girly things, or at least he likes to pretend he does. Travis has a sweet tooth and hates spicy food. He doesn't keep eye contact with anybody for longer than he has to. Travis is closeted, he doesn't think I know, but how could I not know when every part of me revolves around him. Travis and I aren't twins, but sometimes it feels that way. When Travis is hurt, I'm hurt. When he is in trouble, I'm in trouble. If giving my life meant saving him, I wouldn't think even for a moment that I wanted to live. Travis is annoying, he oversteps boundaries, he play-fights too hard and walks too quick, but I live for him, and I adore him dangerously.