Roger's hands had grown exceedingly callused from the vast amount of time he had spent pouring over his guitar. Each finger had a varying degree of serious injury, since his thumb was obviously used much more than his pinkie. He had read somewhere that evolutionists believe the pinkie would someday cease to exist due to lack of use. Wow, that would suck. How would his great-great-grandchildren ever learn how to play the guitar? Roger pitied their poor, tortured souls and they weren't even born yet.

Roger caught himself musing over his precious pinkies and turned crimson from embarrassment. What kind of man gazed at his nails all day long wondering if they would ever stop being hereditary? Geesh, that was a disturbing thought. With a couple violent shakes of his head, Roger attempted to clear his mind and continue on with practice.

There was an abrupt knock on the door. The knock was obnoxiously loud and echoed in his skull much longer than the visitor had ever intended it too.

"Can I disturb you for a minute?" A pitchy voice shouted from the deserted hallway.

"You already have," came Roger's tart reply.

As if his sister hadn't already known that.

The door flew open with such exhilarating speed that Roger was nearly thrown off his crummy old bed. He then set eyes on his infamous younger sister, who happened to be very well known for her opinionated views, squeaky agitating voice, and detestable hatred towards Riddilin. Her motto went along the lines of, "If God meant for me to be this way, then why the bloody hell bother to change it?"

His sister's blazing green eyes seemed to be set afire as she stood in his threshold gawking. Her eyeballs appeared to be bulging and she had a permanent grin plastered to her face, which exposed her repulsively toothy smile. She certainly wasn't any eye candy, but she was lovable none the less.

"You suck," she stated staring incredulously at the well-loved guitar, arms planted firmly on her bony hips. There was one large grease stain running down the length of her face giving Roger reason to believe she had been hanging around the car wash again.

"Well you're sure as hell not medicated," Roger noted, slightly amused by his sister's display of raw genuineness. He had always wanted to capture that reality in one of his songs but he could never quiet fully grasp it.

"We ran out of pills."

"Ran out?" Roger repeated, totally unconvinced.

"You know what I mean," the little scoundrel quipped, plopping her eleven-year-old body on the bed carelessly, which was how she did most things. Her long dirty blond ponytail bobbed up and down a couple of times before coming to a holt behind her dome shaped head. A few untamed pieces framed her face, achieving that ready and wild look that most girls spent hours trying to attain.

"Oh do I?" Roger questioned, raising a skeptical eyebrow. "Enlighten me, where did you stash them this time?"

"The toilet," she replied, taking note of Roger's disappointing glance. "I ran out of ideas," she quickly added.

"That I can see."

"So-ooo what have you been doing all day long. . .besides moping around the house that is."

"I don't mope," Roger shot back in defense. "I ponder. There's a difference, Runty."

"Don't call me Runty!" the girl protested in pure exasperation.

"Runty."

"Shut-up!" And with that, Runty showed off her perfected art at throwing pillows. Pillow fights require a lot of skill that goes unnoticed. It's a very underestimated sport.

"Runty!" Roger repeated, only muffled this time. He got Runty square across the face with the sleeve of his ratty worn out sweatshirt and received a punch in response.

"Get off me you lard head!"

"Runty!"

"St—op!"

"Runty Runty Runty!"

"Ugh! When will you ever mature?!" Runt asked in a half squeal, half scream. She reminded her older brother of a tortured pig. It was rather humorous.

"Oh excuse me Ms. I-Think-I'll-Hide-My-Pills-In-The-Toilet."

"The only pills you'd be able to hide is your Prozac."

"I wouldn't hide those," Roger retorted in an almost comical tone.

"You'll be lucky if you don't OD on them."

"Very funny."

"I know." Runty beamed in a gloating manner. She certainly didn't suffer from being humble. One might actually refer to her as cocky.

"So-ooo," the pre-teen began once again, for it was her favorite opening line and she was desperate to change the subject to anything other than her name. "How are you planning to spend your last days of summer before college?"

The previously posed question threw Roger completely off guard. Since when did his sister mention that? It was almost embarrassing how casual she was about it, asking in a mild tone while gingerly picking lint balls off of her plaid flannel shirt.

"College?" Roger repeated, placing his guitar down gently. He treated his instrument as though it were a live being, a baby even, for it was more sacred to him than all he considered precious. And Roger didn't find most things precious. He was thought of as an utter pessimist and Runty never let him forget it. 'You have such a negative outlook on life!' she would whine on a daily basis. Her brother would simply look at her, unblinking, and reply, 'It's not a negative view, it's a realistic view.' At this point Runty usually stormed out of the room in a fit of pure rage. She had a one- track mind set on pursuing happiness and it was note easily altered. That fact alone provided quiet a contrast in the Davis household. The opposing siblings could spend hours on end arguing until they were blue in the face. Well, technically Roger turned red, and Runty transformed into a rather disturbing shade of purple. It was an intriguing sight to behold if you could actually stomach it. But I digress.

"Oh, that's right, you don't want to go to college."

Runty's cracking prone voice brought Roger back to the harsh reality of the situation he found himself in at the moment. Great. He'd much rather be in La-La Land than facing his interrogator's never ending string of questions.

"It's not that I don't want to go—I can't."

"Since when?" Runty demanded.

"Since I flunked outta school."

The conversation paused momentarily.

"When did this happen?"

"Last week," Roger answered nonchalantly.

"Mom's gonna kill you," Runt stated in that taunting child like reform.

A small smirk played at the corner of the budding artist's lips. "Oh please," he buffed, trying not to crack a smile. That would be so un-Roger like. He took his little sister by the shoulders and began to guide her to the door. Some kids just can't take a hint. "Mom's never home long enough to get mad anyway."

"She has to work dummy, you know that." Runty began to resist Roger's pushing. "Besides, it doesn't take that long to get mad at something. I mean, look at how easily YOU get pissed off."

"I'm an angst ridden poet," Roger stated firmly as if that would explain it all. And it did. For him.

"Angst ridden? What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?"

"Will you quit putting 'bloody' in front of everything?!" Roger pleaded, picking up his little sister and physically tossing her out of his sanctuary. He was at a devastating lack of options. "You're not even English," he added as an after thought.

"How do you know?" Runty implied as she tumbled head over scruffy heels to the ground. Skid marks were like her tattoos, each one she showed off with bubbling pride. So when she received a new edition to her vulgar collection, she didn't curse the antagonist off, she just grinned stupidly at her new minor wound. It wasn't that hard to get them in her house. The family couldn't afford any decent carpartening and she was drawn rather relentlessly to rough housing. Thus this created the perfect opportunity to gain scratches and bruises and she looked forward to every one of them.

"Just shut-up and leave me alone," Roger snapped, agitated by the thought of college, for he had spend so long trying to forget. He slammed the door in Runty's face and retreated back to his isolated bed. He poured mournfully over his guitar as the so-called 'angst ridden poet' once again cut himself off from the rest of the world.