He remembered, years ago, when he was just a boy, when they flew to Galway to visit his grieving uncle. His aunt had just died of cancer, he thinks. Within hours of their arrival, his uncle left. He left a note on the table, and told them to open when he came back, or at midnight. Whichever came first.
He never returned.
The note was a suicide note. He remebered crying with his parents, but he didn't know why. Not then. The note left them nothing material. But it requested that they became the guardians of his child, his sweet little angel. His Amber.
Amber was 3 years old, as was he. Their birthdays were days apart, Amber being older. Amber spoke fluent Gaelic, but her English was poor. He helped her with English. She, in turn, taught him Gaelic. His parents didn't understand them. An unknown language spoken fluently in few areas in just one country was the key. It was what bonded them. They could talk about anything. Anything from the stars, to the sea, the moon to the mountains. Anything at all.
He remembered the swings and the slides. The countless afternoons spent in the local playground. How the sun felt on his cheeks up on the jungle gym. Those elementary afternoons were some of his fondest memories.
In their early teenage years, they used Gaelic to their advantage. They talked about upcoming parties, and how they were going to ask his parents. If they were going to sneak out, if they were going to a sleepover. They never talked about crushes, or boys or girls. He couldn't remember why, but they just didn't.
He remembered when they were fourteen, Amber got a job working in the local library. She checked out books, stamped out late fees and organised library cards. Sometimes Dave would come in and they would just chat, completely ignoring anyone who actually wanted to use the library services. That got her fired eventually. She didn't care much. She could get any job she wanted. With her perfect teeth, ruddy blonde hair that shined in the sun and huge dynamic grey eyes, she could bat her eyelashes and get anything that she wanted. She was also smart. Your B type student.
After a string of summer jobs that were all unsuccessful, mainly thanks to him, she had earned enough money to go see the concert they had eagerly waited for. Beyonce. They danced and jumped and shouted the lyrics into one others faces. They were at the back, they couldn't see a thing. He was ruining his new shoes by standing in the strange sticky puddle by their feet. He found it hard to care.
He remembered not talking to her much in middle school. He had her back. He never let anyone touch her. No jocks bullied her, no one jeered her. And she threatened to beat up anyone who said anything about him. They were happy.
He remembered when she shuffled into his room, one summer afternoon. The summer that they were both fifteen. The afternoon that would change their lives forever. Her grey eyes were glazed and she was making no attempt to mask her confusion. She looked grave, scared. He remembered her saying it. The words glided out of her mouth, tinted with a faint Irish accent. She asked him if he ever had feelings for boys. He remained silent. She looked up at him with those pearly eyes and told him. Told him in Gaelic, their special language, that she liked girls. And boys. And she looked up, eyes bleary, mouth barley open, with a pleading look on her face that said please accept me, please. And he started to laugh. A chuckle escaped his lips and he hugged her close. He hugged her tight. He hugged his sister and never planned on letting go. He told her he loved her, and nothing would change that. And he knew it was time to tell someone. And that someone was her. He told her the secret he had been harbouring for years. The one that kept him awake many winter nights. He told her. He told her that he liked boys. Just boys. Particularly one boy by that he could never have. And she smiled a knowing smile and he knew everything would be okay. As close to okay was it ever going to get. They sat in a comfortable silence, untill she shattered it. She suggested that they tell his parents. Tell them tonight. She said that it would be easier for both of them.
He remembered going through the plan with her for hours. They spoke Gaelic, as someone might overhear them. That would ruin the plan. Amber said she would come out first. Tell them who she really was, and before they had a chance to react, he would come out too. He thought it was a fool proof plan. She agreed.
He called his parents into the kitchen, and they stood in front of the counter top. Him and Amber stayed behind. Amber stood a foot in front of him. She opened her mouth and closed it. She looked over her shoulder at him. He nodded. A nod of approval.
And she told them. But only about her.
And he opened his mouth to speak. And all the words clogged his throat. So many wanted to come at once, but the all failed to dance off the tip of his tongue. He remembered that in those eternal mute seconds, the worlds changed.
And the names started.
They called her those names.
He remembered how her face showed no emotion, but inside, rotting away.
They didn't stop calling her those horrible names.
Dyke.
Lesbo.
Butch.
Ouch. He wished they'd stop.
But he didn't do anything to stop them.
And then his mom walked over to the microwave and set thirty minutes. And said one word. Hissed one word.
"Pack."
And she walked. Walked out of that kitchen. Walked into her room, and started tossing things into an old duffel bag. He was standing in the doorway. He called her name gently. No reply. He called. He called out to her.
"Deirfiur."
The Gaelic for sister. Because thats what she was to him. A sister. A sister than was there for him through thick and thin. A sister that he betrayed. And she looked up. Stared at him. And she smiled. He remembers that smile. And she chuckled. And asked him never to call her that again. He tried to apologize. She told him a apology was just a word, and words can never undo actions.
But he didn't.
He couldn't.
And he regrets it.
Because he remembers the the look on her face, the look of betrayal on her face when she walked out that door, the last time he saw her. He remembers her lips, her hair, and the way her eyes screamed traitor. And the way the image was eased away from him, when she gently pulled the door closed.
He remembers, all too well.
And he wishes he didn't.
So guys? What do you think? This is just a one shot. My first Angst. Idea came to me last night laying off in bed.
Please review!
Thanks!