As we waited for the limo, I ran my fingers through all of my suit pockets looking for my earbuds and shoved them into my phone and pressed play on my current playlist. I knew the bickering and fussing would start at any moment. About how I was off tune, or how I didn't give the star, Wes, enough spotlight.
It didn't matter at this point. All of the words and insults they throw at me don't bother me anymore. They're just words now. I admit they used to bother me, especially after my first concert with Wes, when I was 13. They told me I was sloppy and I should have never even got on that stage. But the fact is: I never wanted to. I never wanted to be some celebrity piano prodigy. That's who my parents forced me to be. I wanted to be a normal kid who lived a normal life. But instead I'm homeschooled and I can't name a place in the world that I haven't been to! Italy, Japan, Germany, South America, everywhere!
Well, I take that back. It's my dream to go to the Death Weapon Meister Academy in Death City, Nevada. People tell me that the place isn't real, but I believe it is. I also hear that you've got to be a human weapon or at least have some training with a weapon to attend the high school. I've held a gun once, a water gun that is. Oh yeah and-
"Take those out when I'm talking to you, young man!" my mom shouted as she yanked my earbuds from my ears. I hadn't even realized it but we were already in the limo and on our way to our estate. Thankfully, we played in Chicago tonight, which was only about an hour away from our mansion in Highland Park. "When are you going to learn that your head is supposed to be focused on playing your piano and not in Wonderland?!"
I turned away and frowned. "I'm sorry, Ma. I'll try better next time," I said, disappointment in my voice. I put all my effort into trying every time I get on stage and it's just never good enough for her. All of the sudden I hear snickering on my right to see Wes' face red as ever. My mom pretended she didn't notice but I know she did. She turned away from me and looked at Dad. He had his face in his hands and I knew that he was going to start throwing things at me next, like he always did. But this time he didn't. Instead he looked up and glanced at me for a second, and then turned to Wes. He and Ma started congratulating him and telling him how proud they were of him.
I hated it. He always got praise and I always got insults. But I had to deal with it. Even though we're brothers, we're two very different people and nothing more or less. Right when I went to place my earbuds back into my ears, Wes comes to sit beside me. I notice that my parents are in the front chatting with the limo driver. Wes playfully puts an arm around my shoulders and I had the sudden urge to punch him. I knew he was going to say something stupid to me, but what came out of his mouth was more than stupid. It was rotten and mean. "You don't belong in this family," he whispered, "You don't deserve to be named Evans. You're an embarrassment, and not to mention a freak. You're just a piece of garbage. I wonder why our dear parents waste their time on you. You should just leave, and never return." He pulled away and opened the door of the limo and climbed out. We had arrived home but I hadn't realized, once again. Instead of getting out too, I just sat there. I couldn't believe what I had just been told. Worthless? Garbage? Freak? I get the freak part 'cause who is born with white hair and red eyes? They've insulted me my whole life but what Wes had just said to me had really got to me. I don't know why; their comments hardly ever get farther than my ear. But this one went to my head. I guess it was what broke me. The last straw.
I hopped out of the white limo and ran into our mansion, up the grand staircase and to my room. I looked at my clock and saw it was 12:40 AM. I knew everybody was getting ready for bed so now was the perfect time. The perfect time to make my escape. I found an old orange backpack and stuffed some t-shirts, a few pair of jeans, sneakers, and $350 I had stashed under my bed. I also found the pamphlet that held all of that money safely inside. The DWMA's brochure I found on the street one day. Looking at it made all of my anger go away and I forgot all about Wes' comment earlier. I knew I'd be a hell of a lot happier there.
And this is where my story begins.