Genre: Drama

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        It was always like this.  The blissful comfort in knowing that he was much better than me.  And when I say blissful comfort, I mean it in the most sarcastic way possible.  The two humans who gave birth to me didn’t even sway at the fact that this was who I was.  Instead, they praised him for everything that he was. 

            Except for the fact that he was doing what my parents wanted, there was nothing special about him.  He was just another average Joe.  Just like me, he had thick eye brows, two eyes, two ears and a mouth.  Well except for the scar on my chin.

I got the nasty scar when I was in the first grade.  I was running after Betty, just because she told me to.  She kept looking back at me, ushering me to follow her with her hand gestures and I just kept on after her.  I forgot why she wanted me to run after her.  She had a reason, I’m sure.  But I just can’t remember what the reason was.  It was during recess, and we were only allowed to run on the concrete area of the school.  That way, the teachers could keep an eye on the fifty-some kids running around.  All I remember was running after Betty.  She had her new socks on with her worn out Mary Jane flats she bragged about all year and a wavy long skirt that didn’t match the tan shirt she wore.  Her curly red pig tails bounced as she ran in front of me.  I remembered focusing only on her because it was the first time a girl had told me, a guy, to follow her.  I didn’t want to be her little boyfriend.  I didn’t like Betty or anything.  I just ran after her because she told me to.  Without looking at the ground in front of me as I ran, I kept right on behind her.  If I had been looking at the ground instead of criticizing what Betty was wearing that day, I would have seen the large piece of asphalt that had made its way up and out of the flat ground.   But I didn’t.  My chin hit the ground pretty hard, and the scar has been there ever since. 

            There were times when he would stare straight into my eyes while I’d do the same with him.  But instead of giving me the anguished look I always wore when I looked at him, his eyes were full of sympathy.  He was always sympathetic towards me.  But I’ll say this much: although he was indeed genuinely apologetic towards the way I was treated, I still despised him greatly.  I don’t think he’s a bad guy.  Actually, on the contrary, he’s too great.  Why should he give up on the things that make him happy for other people when it’s his life?  But that exact thing is the only reason he was an exception and not me.  Because I wanted to do what made me happy.  That’s why I despised him.  “If only he’d disappear,” was what I’ve been thinking for all these years.  If only he didn’t exist.

            It all started that day after school when I won the contest for the piece of artwork that my art teacher encouraged me to submit.  I was thrilled that someone else in this entire universe noticed that a normal person like myself had a knack for creating something beautiful with my own two hands.  I wore the ribbon on my chest proudly even though all my fellow middle school classmates walked by oblivious to the fact that I actually won first place in something.  Gripping onto the prized possession that helped me claim my first place in the contest, I scanned my work proudly as I walked out of the school at the end of the school day.  The sweet sun burst colors of orange and red acrylic paint separated the green landscape and the clear blue sky.  It was a simple painting, but my art teacher said, “Sometimes simple is better.”  I painted a small house in the middle of the canvas along with my parents and me.  All of us were there, but the main focus was the colors that blended so well together.  At least that’s what my art teacher told me. 

            I took a deep breath and reached for the gate that separated the rest of the world from our little house.  The sound of the metal screeched slightly as I pushed it open and again, when I closed it behind me.  Taking another deep breath, I reached for the cold door knob that warmed up to the temperature of my hand, and after some thought, I finally turned it and opened the door.  The smell of dust swimming around the air was stronger that day compared to others.  I saw my mother standing on top of one of the dinner table chairs in the living room, over our television, with a duster in her right hand and trying to balance herself, holding on to the wall with her left hand.  She was trying to dust the parts of the house that were apparently usually unreachable, so “the risk of breaking an ankle was unavoidable once in a while,” she would say.  I walked into the living room, and my father was lying on the dark green sofa all sprawled out as if he had not gone to work that day. 

Looking proudly at my shiny red ribbon, I turned my artwork around to show them.  “I won first place today.” 

“Aw, congratulations,” said my mother who glanced over for a second then turned her attention back to cleaning.  My father half heartily congratulated me as well and then turned his attention back to watching the wild, wild, west cowboys dueling on television. 

I stood there for a moment, unsure of why their reaction was not what I had hoped.  Actually, I suppose that even as a child at that time, I saw it coming.  I knew they weren’t going to be all that interested in my artwork anyways.  But that day was the day I made one of the biggest life decisions any junior high school or teenager was supposed to make.  I wanted to become an artist.  And winning first place was the proof I wanted to show my parents:  the proof that it was possible to make something out of myself, doing something they belittled, something that they wouldn’t really consider a career. 

            “I said I won first place.” I repeated.

            “Yes, son, that’s great.” My father’s eyes were locked on the little box of moving pictures that my mother hovered over, trying to clean the small specks of dust at the very corner of the living room. 

            “I worked really hard on this project.  Do you guys want to se-?”

            “Son,” my mother cut me off, “It’s just an art thing.  It’s no big deal.”

            I remember pausing there for a moment, feeling very perplexed.  It wasn’t as I wished it would be.  Standing there in the small living room, I noticed the light flickering on and off and my mother complaining loudly to my father that he should be fixing the light instead of lazing his on the sofa.  I swallowed hard on my spit before I continued.

“I want to be an artist when I grow up.” 

Silence for a moment.  And then my father let out a small scoff.  “Yea, right.” My father scratched his belly, paying no mind to my grand confession.

“I mean it. I’m not going to be a doctor or whatever you guys want me to be. I want to be an artist.”  I remember my mother giving me a dissatisfied smirk as she looked at me with a worried expression. 

Even thinking about that day now creates a lump in my throat.  The anger, the loneliness, the overwhelming realization that the human beings around me were so disgustingly selfish that they would rather their son throw away his passion and dreams for a materialistic reason, and instead, reach towards a career that would shower him with money.  It’s for my own future happiness they would say.  They know better because they’re parents, they would say.  It will benefit me in the long run… they would say. 

And yes, that did it.  I didn’t know it then, but looking back, now I know.  That was when it started.  Those two people were breathing the same air as me, sleeping in the same enclosed walls as I did, but they started ignoring me.  I started becoming invisible.  They only cared for him.  He was willing to become that doctor for them.  He was willing to do as they pleased and be who they wanted him to be.  Heck, I bet he would the cement floor outside if they wanted him to. 

Every day started to become like a dream.  It was as if the soul that enticed my body had floated off to another land and through the even empty, soulless body, I had to watch them treat him like he was a human being.  As if only he was deserving because he was fulfilling their dreams.  It was as if he wanted to trample over me and make me disappear; that way, we wouldn’t have to suffer any more.  All I ever wanted was to be able to reach out for my own dreams.  His continuous success in medical school made it ever more impossible for me.  And that’s why I despised him. 

Before I knew it, my paintings took a path of its own.  Instead of painting large blue and white mountains, I started painting dim shallow canvases.  Since I had no one to talk to, I had no one to care for me, so I poured my feelings onto these canvases.  I always made sure to cover every white spot on the canvas.  Never leaving my room, I realized that my room itself felt detached from the entire house.  Eventually, I started to become numb to the loneliness.  It began to feel like no matter what I did, this would always be where I ended up:  a lonely dim room, with its lonely easel and a lonely man.

There was a time before when I thought of giving up on my dreams in order to do what they wanted.  I was going to become like him, the person who was sitting in front of me.  I was going to throw away the person I truly was and I truly wanted to be.  My plan was to put all that into the darkest room in the house and leave it locked in there, like a secret. 

One day, my eyes automatically squinted at the bright light beaming into the shadows of my dim room.  It was him.  He came in.  He just walked in and looked at me with those large sorrowful eyes.  More than feeling upset, I was entirely annoyed by this.  He would always look from outside my door with those sad eyes, but this time he was right in front of me as if I owed him something.  He didn’t say anything to me, just stared at me for a while and then got up to leave.  He closed the door quietly, and the bright light from outside left my room along with him.  Did he want me to accept him too?  Was it because I was the only one who pretended he wasn’t a part of my life?

This started happening more often and lasted for a while.  I just wanted him to pretend I wasn’t there.  Just like the parents who only praised him, only put food out on the table for him, only laughed at his words, who always walked by me as if I were invisible. 

I mean, there even came a time when I actually questioned myself if as to whether was really invisible.  Maybe I was just a ghost wandering and haunting the hallways of this beat down home.  But whenever I looked at my paintings, I knew.  I knew that I was in fact there.  The grey colors that splattered the canvas embedded my emotions precisely.  I would feel the tough bristles of the paint brush.  And if I pinched myself, it would hurt.  This was real.  In my room, I was able to be the person I always wanted to be.  An artist.  I was definitely there.  It was just that my parents wouldn’t acknowledge me. 

Just like all those other days before, he came into my dim room and sat down at the computer desk beside me.  I tried not to look at him but I started to hear quiet sniffles.  Slowly, my eyes shifted from the easel in front of me to his face.  He was crying from those sorrowful eyes.  I didn’t say anything to him, but after a short time of watching him sob in front of me, my chest started to cramp up.  It was hard for me to breathe properly, almost as if I was the one crying. 

My fingers swept through the tough bristles on the paint brush I had on my hand. Thoughts rummaged through my mind as my eyes locked on his hunched shoulders and muffled sobs.  His hunched shoulders shook pitifully.  I started pondering on whether or not I should say something.  But before I got a word out, he spoke first.

“Hey,” He mumbled out as his sobbing lessened.  He sniffed and looked up at me.

“Hey,” I replied quietly.

He sniffed some more as he wiped his cheeks clean.  It took him a few minutes to pull himself together.  He finally asked, “Do you feel sorry for me?”  I looked at him in disbelief.  Me?  Feel sorry towards him?  Shouldn’t I be asking him that?

“Do you feel sorry for me?” He repeated his question with a sincere look on his face.

“No,” I replied flatly.

“You should, you know?” He shifted in his seat, probably trying to make himself more comfortable.  His left leg shook up and down as if he was impatient or needed to use the bathroom.  He sniffed again, “You made me do this when I didn’t want to.  I thought the longer I did this, it would make everyone happy.  And it did, at least for mother and father.  But now, I feel like it’s the other way around.  We’re not happy.  I don’t know who I really am anymore.”

I looked straight into his eyes as he spoke.  “You did this to yourself,”  I said in almost a whisper.

“No.  We did this to each other.”  His eyes glared intently back into mine.  It seemed as if he was trying to find a solution to his problem.  He paused for minutes.  We sat there in utter silence until he spoke again.

“I wanted to be an artist too, you know?” He glanced at my unfinished painting of the deep, dark colors of the ocean. 

“What happened?” I eventually asked.

His eyes shifted back towards mine.  No words slipped his lips.  I stared intently, waiting for an answer.  Giving a good look at him, I didn’t notice it before.  But he had a scar on his chin.  Same as mine.  His eye brows were thick, same as mine. 

My hand reached over to the lamp on the computer desk next to him.  I tugged on the string to switch on the light and he became much clearer to me.  I stared intently, extremely closely at the man in the mirror.