Mirage Bishop {D4}

Mirage Bishop

I love my dad, I really do, but he can't keep it in his pants. He used to bring home a woman every other weekend, and it was always the weekend we visited mom. He must've thought he was being slick. We weren't blind, just silent. Our parents split up when I was five and Miller was four. Marital disputes, we all know how it is. They could never agree on anything; child rearing, division of labor, where to live, what to cook - it could go on forever. We didn't understand it because we were so young, but now I can picture it. All of the yelling must've been stressful, so I don't blame them for splitting up. It's not like we couldn't see them. We lived with dad and visited mom every other weekend. She has a house by the beach, so it was especially nice to go there with Miller.

Dad made us work and mom spoiled us. Lucky for me, I had my own motivation to do what they wanted. Mom used to dance as a performing art and dad used to be a trained career, so I decided to combine the two. I took dance lessons on top of basic career training, and when I wasn't spending my hours training there I was in school or lifting weights. Girls are known for being nimble. Why stop there? I want to be powerful. I want to crush bones with my bare hands because everyone knows a sword isn't always enough. It actually came in handy. The dancing, the weight training, the career training, all of it. I have nothing but benefits.

At what cost? A lot.

I found out my brother was being bullied by thugs the day he walked in with a black eye. Apparently it had been happening for a while, but this was the first time they actually touched him. I try not to ask what the point is, but I can't help but wonder. Why harass people? It's exhausting. What did they gain if not money? Because they didn't steal from him, they just cursed at him and kicked his ass whenever he tried to talk back. Were they bored or something? Was my brother an asshole? I know for a fact that he wasn't. It just seems pointless to me, even now. But that's what ruined him. People ruined him.

I at least did something about it early on. The black eye was harsh to look at, so when he told me where the thugs chased him down I found that place and skipped my last class to hide behind a fence. I didn't think they would actually show up but they did, and they were there with my brother. I got to witness first hand what these idiots sounded like. It was hard not to jump out and kick their asses right then and there, but I had to wait. My brother couldn't be there to watch. I wanted to confront them alone.

They followed him for two blocks and ended their little vent by throwing something at him. I think it was a soda can. That was when I made my move. It was nothing special - I just walked up to them and kicked one of them in the groin. I had never practiced my training on real people before, but these boys were like twigs. The one I kicked bent over to coddle his poor balls, so I jammed my knee into his face and elbowed the vertebrae in the back of his neck. It was surprisingly easy. When the second one came at me I don't think he anticipated the strength of my thighs. I drop-kicked the wind out of him and he almost fell straight on his ass. Then he lunged and we scrapped for a bit. I got a cut lip, he got some bruises. I ended up flipping him into some trash cans.

I told them to leave my brother alone or I would tear their assholes up with my high heels.

It was a gross thing to say, but I'm not good at witty comments and comebacks. I just do what I do and leave it as is.

Nothing happened for a few months. There were no more black eyes, no more things to say about the thugs, but my brother didn't change. He was always down in the dumps; a pessimist with a permanent storm cloud hovering above his head. I thought it was a phase. I invited him to dance classes and career classes but he turned them all down. On weekends at mom's I tried to cheer him up by taking him out on the boat to visit the coves. It usually worked, but I used to be blind. One weekend he didn't want to visit mom, and I asked him if he was sure. I offered to take him out for ice cream, but he said no, he was okay. He wanted to stay with dad and keep him company. I told him there would be a woman for that. He said no, dad had different plans. I trusted him.

Mom needed help with some errands so I ended up staying a day later. When I came back home, there were bouquets of flowers stacked up by the front door. Dad has a lot of secret admirers, I thought.

There were notes attached to the bouquets. "My condolences," most of them said. "He was a bright boy with a promising future."

Dad was inside hunched over a plate of food. He said he found Miller hanging by a rope in his bedroom.

I was sixteen. Miller was fifteen.

Recently I visited a counselor, and she says I'm trying to repress the memories because I can't understand what was wrong with my brother, and why he was the way he was. She's probably right, but I ended our sessions. I should be spending my money on better things.

Dad got fired from his job. The depression was too heavy. I quit my career class and my dance class. We couldn't mourn and starve at the same time, so mom helped us out while she could. It was barely enough. We were a fucking wreck for the longest time and I felt myself deteriorating, physically and mentally and emotionally. I couldn't let that happen. I didn't want to end up like those kids in the streets with the sunken cheeks and dead eyes, so hopeless and lost and miserable. I didn't think I would find a job but I did, last year. As a dancer. Not the type of dancer my mother once was. I dance for a nightclub.

Both of my parents would have a stroke if they found out. They think I'm a bartender. They tell me to "be careful of dirty old men." They have no idea. All the weight lifting and career training pays off, though - I don't worry for my safety. I can disarm a man with a knife and if anyone tries anything, I'll make them cry. The closest these men will ever get to my goodies will be if I crush their skulls between my thighs. I don't care for their testosterone and chest hair and stupid comments.

"Voluptuous" is not a compliment, sorry.

My hair is exotic? Thank you, it's not natural.

My eyes are perfect? Good, I did my makeup properly then.

My blue eyes are like the sea? Oh my god.

You would fuck me so hard? Great, does that line always work for you?

The only patrons I don't mind are the women. You can ask anyone, I pay special attention to them. I give them the bedroom eyes that say, "You can have it if you ask." What can I say? My sex life has been dry.

I still live with my dad and visit my mom on weekends. It's not the same.

I visit Miller's grave once a month. I never know what to say.

School is dull but necessary.

Life goes on.