Prologue
Tired. After an entire night's worth of sleep, I'm still tired. Sighing, I slowly sit up on my bed, and open my eyes to see my little brother – in all his glory – staring me straight in the face, unblinking. After staring at each other, he quickly jumps off the bed, and runs out the door.
Confused, but too tired to care, I walk over to my mirror, stare at my reflection, then walk out the door. As I walk down the hallway, one of my older brothers shoved me with a bottle of shaving cream. "G'morning Liraz," He says. "Mornin'," I respond as I reach the stairs at the end of the hallway.
My other two older brothers – the two oldest, or Tweedledum and Tweedledumber, as I like to call them – stand in the archway that leads to the kitchen. My youngest brother stood, smirking mischievously between them. "Tweedledum. Tweedledumber." I say, greeting them.
"In reality, Liraz, the character's names are Tweedledee and Tweedledum. But, of course you wouldn't know that. You have the brain the size of a squirrel's bladder." Tweedledum says.
"Wait. Who are we talking about now? Isn't that what the principal of the last school you got expelled from told you?" I retort. "Anyway, I'm hungry. Shove it," I say, elbowing my way through them. My youngest brother – Jonathan- had already retreated into the kitchen in case Tweedledum and Tweedledumber's superiority complex made them violent. Last time that happened, I ended up with a black eye and Tweedledum and Tweedledumber ended up with aching balls. They really should wear cups around the house.
Jonathan stares at me through his spot inside one of the low cabinets in the kitchen. Whenever I see him, I always wonder how he got platinum blond hair and black eyes. His hair is so light, that it could easily be compared to white. The day I felt his hair, he was running around the house like a maniac screaming bloody murder as protest to bath time so I decided to do something stupid since I was bored. I positioned myself near the archway the the living room, so that when he would come speeding through, I would jump-tackle him, not unlike how football players tackle their opponents. So, as I tackled him, I grabbed the back of his head with my hands to prevent him from hitting his head too hard. It was fun. But somehow, my mother never seems to be there when these things happen. Should I be concerned? I've been thinking of getting life insurance though; you never know what could happ ;en with four brothers, three of them the huge jock type of guy, two of them out for my life, and one of them that when he accidentally shoves you lightly, he could send you flying to Canada. Figuratively speaking, hopefully.
That's it, I'm asking her for life insurance, and if she refuses, I'm going on strike with Jonathan.
The side door buzzes, and my mother walks through carrying groceries. She smiles, oblivious to the evil of the devil spawn she birthed, and said, "Help with the groceries, please?"
And so, by the end of the seemingly simple chore of dragging groceries from the car, into the house, then into the fridge again (or freezer in some cases), there was one thing that bothered me. Well, it was more like I was thoroughly disturbed with what I saw, and I'm pretty sure you cant exactly miss this. The sun had a face. And the sun looked like a psycho.