Page 7 of Brando
At the moment, they are restless as they pace around the room. I’ve tried my hardest with them, but I’m quickly losingpatience and I’m simultaneously about to lose my shit when they won’t listen and don’t sit down. Their pacing back and forth is giving me whiplash, and their complaints are causing my brain to short circuit.
We’ve only been here five days, but in that time, they’ve driven me literally crazy with their demands and never-ending whining. I love my sisters to death, but they’re social butterflies, and they don’t do so well in confined spaces. I would’ve thought that being faced with such a disaster, they’d rise to the occasion and assist wherever needed to make sure we are going to be-and stay-safe. But I may have overestimated their willingness to participate in keeping us all safe and supporting us in what could only be described as one of our darkest hours. Because it looks like we may very well end up killing each other.
“How much longer will we have to stay here?” Maxine whines, while Sophia flicks at her nails and reminds us that she’s overdue for her manicure.
I peek out from beneath the lace cloth acting as a curtain against the window, the grime caked to it literally making my skin crawl. The street outside is deathly quiet, not a soul in sight. I’m still a little uneasy about being here, although Uncle Mason insisted that staying in the seediest side of town was the best camouflage for us.
My mind is still spinning with the events of the past few weeks. My father’s death, then the constant phone calls with the breathing down the line. The house was ransacked - twice - before Uncle Mason bundled us up and brought us to this derelict house on the outskirts of the city, where he promised us we’d be safe for a while until he figured out a more permanent solution.
Every couple of days, he comes by with supplies. Food and drinks, enough to sustain at least our stomachs, but what did a man - let alone a much older one - know about a woman’s self-care? What would he know about which shampoos to use, and the creams and the cleansers that we had become accustomed to using? What did he know about the creature comforts that sustained us and the things that kept us thriving?
I could go without - all that excess material stuff never really meant anything to me, but I turn toward my sisters sullenly and almost give up on the world. They’re twins, and at nineteen, they’re in the prime of their lives, and they don’t know any better. They’re a little materialistic. That was my father’s doing. He spoiled them silly after my mother’s death; he raised them without drawing any boundaries, and they had gotten all too comfortable with the good things in life. So very unlike me. I’d had more time with my mother, so I was more grounded. More like her. More down to earth. My sisters were all about the good things in life, just like our dad had been. Maybe a little too much.
After much pestering, I finally got the full story out of Uncle Mason, who isn’t really our uncle, but he’s been around longer than any other blood relative we have. Apparently, my father had been caught dipping his fingers into funds that were not his for the taking. That ultimately got him a one-way ticket out of our lives, and I find that more than anything, I’m mad at him for leaving us. And especially for leaving behind this mess to clean up. Even if we sold every last asset we had, down to the clothes on our backs, it would never be enough to repay what my father has stolen.
“Mia, come on!” Sophia sulks, stomping her foot like an errant child. I sigh and shake my head in exasperation. Children, the both of them.
“The alternative is to be killed or sold into sexual servitude,” I remind them. “I don’t know about you, but I quite like it here.”
I’m so casual about the matter that my sisters fix me with their doe eyes, almost as though they wish they could strike me down.
“You’re so fucked in the head, Mia,” Maxine says. “That’s one easy way to meet a billionaire.”
I love my sisters. I really do. But sometimes I have to wonder about their intellect. I know it’s only a result of losing dad and being holed up here that’s making them crazy, but they really need to consider the alternatives carefully before running their mouths.
“A billionaire who needs to buy a human is not the sort of human you want to be associated with, Maxine.”
She scoffs, twirls a strand of her lovely strawberry blonde hair around a finger, then shoots me a pout. I just want to slap her upside the head, but I have neither the energy to expend, nor the desire to deal with her tongue in the aftermath.
“You’re going to end up a spinster, you know,” Sophia tells me. I raise my eyebrows, not even in the least bit curious as to how she came to that conclusion.
“What’s the bet she marries before us?” Maxine sighs, frowning at me, like she didn’t even expect the words to come out of her mouth.
“Why is that a bad thing?” I ask.
They look at each other, purse their lips and swear themselves to silence. There’s more brow raising from me before I shake my head and turn away from them, looking out the window again.
“What’s so interesting out there, anyway?” Sophia asks.
“No billionaires out there,” Maxine adds, her small laugh tinkling through the room. They’re truly beautiful, my sisters. Beautiful, but irritating. They get this way when they get anxious, which is quite often when they’ve missed salon appointments.
“Sometimes I wonder about you two,” I mumble. “I could swear that either you or I were adopted and we’re not biological siblings.”
“OK, Miss Hoity Toity, Miss I’m so good it hurts,” Sophia spits. “Always thinking you’re better than us. “Look atyou! You’re the ugly version of us. Of course, we’re siblings!”
It’s all I can do not to really lose my temper at them. We’re really sisters, I know we are. It’s just that sometimes, I want to hurt them as much as they hurt me when they’re being childish. I want to give back as good as I receive. And this is one of those times.
I know I’ll end up saying or doing something I’ll inevitably regret, so instead of sticking around to make things worse, I pull the curtain back until it’s covering the window again and turn to face them.
“You know what, I’ve had all I can bear from you two. Watch some TV while I go rest for a while.”
I switch the ancient set on and turn the dial. The house is a forgotten bastion from the eighties. Everything inside it, from the wallpaper to the carpet, to the kitchen and the furniture, reeks of a bygone era. There’s no cable TV, and we’re lucky to have hot water. It truly feels like we’ve stepped back in time, and even though the last inhabitants may have been here before I was even born, I know from a dusty stack of newspapers and magazines in the corner of one of the bedrooms that the house has stood empty since at least 1986. I don’t know whose house this is, but if I had to guess, I’d say it’s Uncle Mason’s.
“A cartoon? Really?” Maxine’s high-pitched screech follows me down the hallway before I shut the door to the room I’ve been sleeping in and inhale the quiet solitude.
The house isquiet when I wake. Too quiet. Not even the sound of the TV echoing through the walls. I walk down thenarrow corridor to the bathroom, wash my face then look at my reflection in the mirror. I feel like I’ve aged a few decades in the mayhem that has scorched us recently, and I guess judging by the way I look, the bags under my eyes are rather telling also.
The responsibilities of being the oldest sibling always feel like a heavy weight on my shoulders. Every decision I make, every action I take, has to take into account the needs and well-being of my younger siblings. My entire life has been dedicated to looking after my twin sisters, playing the role of the protective older sister they rely on. And in this moment, that role continues without hesitation.