Instructions: Write about yourself. Let us know who you are. Include anything you feel necessary. Do not use your name.
Some people say I live in the shadow of my big brother. Some say that he lives in mine. We don't really – we live next to each other and support each other.
Seto and I had a real family once – a regular one. Then there was a…an accident. We lost both our parents. No one else wanted us, so we were sent to the orphanage. It's not very nice there. The rooms all smell; it's a mix between sweat, tears and fear. Everyone smelled like it, except Seto.
He never smells like fear. It's a sharp, tangy smell like sour milk and old orange juice mixed up and left out too long in the sun. In all the time I've known my brother, fear has yet to touch him.
I've been afraid before. That fear-smell has touched me, but Seto's always been there. Just his presence drives it away sometimes. I don't have to be afraid when Seto's around.
That's part of me – my brother. He's the only family I have now. I guess, defining myself rests on someone else's definition of what 'self' is. I could be just my name, I could be my appearance, I could be who I know. For myself, my own definition of 'self' is the little things that only someone who is close to you would know.
In that case, I'd define myself with the years I spent in the orphanage in a nearly catatonic state, the time I've spent now free of that impersonal hell. I am my habit of sneaking downstairs at 4 AM to eat food. I am the organized chaos on my bedroom floor. My spontaneity, my jealousy, my favorite oatmeal cookies and the Cheerios I eat every morning for breakfast – those are me too.
Most important though, of all the things that make me who I am – that must be Seto. Not just because he is the only family I have left, but because he's the framework for any skyscraper I care to build.
Author's Note: The opening chapter of the essays by Mokuba! If you've got ideas, spawn 'em in the reviews. I'll pick and choose the best ones and hand out shiny new chapters with praise.
