title; hunger (part one — worth).
summary; it really bugs you, sometimes.
wordcount; 775.

"Aw, she's just upset 'cause I told her her brain's turnin' to mush. On account of the Simpson gene!"

Bart

It really bugs you, sometimes.

It's not really her brains or her talent or her brilliance that sets you on edge. Not any more. You had been told, a long time ago, that it was in your blood to be a fuck up. That it was expected and normal for you to screw around all the time. To fail classes and go nowhere and pull pranks and just find other ways to act like a retard. And it had hurt, that revelation, the pounding weight of maturation against your ivories and bones. The force of it's early release — the understanding that you are not as great and unlikely and magnificent as you once thought you were.

It still aches, actually, a dull throb in the body's hollow vacancies, but that's when you began not caring what anyone else thought of you. The exact moment you gave up. You could do whatever you damned well pleased, and the rest of the world could go fuck itself and rot, because this is what they told you to do. They couldn't yell at your for following your calling, the one that was expected and normal.

But Lisa is desperate. Hungry. Ready and willing to set out into the world and prove she isn't going down the same condemned path, ready to prove she isn't an idiot.

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because, the fact of the matter is, she's downright brilliant (have you said that before?). She had jumped up grade levels and scored straight A's and had a four-point-oh GPA. She could play the sax and learned languages and warded off parents and made friends and connections and created respect out of nowhere like there was no tomorrow. Comparing your metamorphoses was a bit like comparing the phases of a swelling, beautiful moon to the monstrous shift of a werewolf. She floated above you, and others, even, not because she was an idiot, but because she was so smart and gorgeous and talented and, honestly, just honestly, she didn't deserve shit like that, and everybody could see it, so long as she was a beautiful, lunar genius. It made you grind your teeth, made you see red and punch walls and disassociate yourself with everything Lisa. And you had been screamed at for all those walls and those fights and for making your sister cry, and been told that, no boy, I don't care what your problem is, but you'd better figure it out.

And then you noticed: it really bugs you, sometimes.

Because suddenly, what was expected and normal did a complete 180. It was expected for you to act like a tool; it was normal for Lisa to push herself until there was nothing left of her. And sure, you were, are, stupid, barely grasping at the basics — but you knew how much it hurt her, to have to keep proving her worth. And you knew how much it hurt her that everyone expected her to turn out just like you. And it hurt you too, that you were just the butt of every joke, the absolute value of zero in the whole town. But you had learned, long ago, that you were nothing. That everything you ever did was worth nothing, because you were still you, and you were expected to go right back to your hell-mongering ways.

(You know who you are.

And it's okay, really.

It's okay to be alone.

But she doesn't know who she is.

She doesn't see her worth.)

And it really bugs you, sometimes.

"Hi, Bart," a voice says.

Tentative.

Desperate.

Normal.

"Hey, Lis," you say, and she backs away from your bedroom's door-frame into her own corner in the world.

And that really worries you, sometimes.

Because she shouldn't be so shy and hesitant to be near you. She shouldn't have to jump head-first into every opportunity, bear every bit of responsibility as she searches for who she is. She shouldn't have to be perfect, shouldn't have to sacrifice herself for good marks and a handful of scholarship money.

She shouldn't be begging for scraps, hoping, pleading, not to be left behind, no, not again.

It just bugs you, sometimes.

It reminds you too much of yourself.

- crowthorn

Last edited on July 23, 2014.