Owen Bowers-Fox {D8/FIN}

I always step carefully over puddles because I’m afraid one might be deep enough to make me drown. Don’t ask me why, I don’t’ know. I just remember waking up one night with the sheets tangled about my awkward, lanky limbs and feeling the film of sweat that coated my body. It wasn’t the excitement of a dream that rendered me awake, no, it was fear. It was the fear of being washed away in the water that lapped at the edges of land. Except we weren’t close to the water, and the thing closest to the ocean were the puddles that littered the streets after a rain. The sky was always dark when my fears were the strongest, and it matched the hair that sat upon my head. My parents complained about it being messy for a while, usually while I was younger, as in the past few years I do believe I’ve cleaned myself up quite nicely. I tend to look well-maintained, except for those few days where my blue eyes show the lack of sleep and anxiety in my heart. It causes me to stumble over my words even more than I usually do, for I am not my brother, Duncan; I cannot produce words at the snap of my fingers and make them flow like a stream.

I am nothing special in looks, even though some have said my eyes are unnaturally sharp. They point out the slightest things, from new chips in the road to a new nest in a high tree. My tongue often slips and fumbles, and any time I try to express what I see through my fingertips in the form of art, something always doesn’t turn out as planned. I can never make the picture I see in my mind appear on the paper before me, and more often than not I end up crumbling the last bits of memories that lay on my desk. I’ve got a hunch that my brother fishes them out and hides them in a book to straighten out, for something’s always missing from the trash can where I tend to toss them the next morning. He tells me to try again, because he knows I remember. He knows that I can remember every detail that graces my vision, and time and time again he pushes me to recreate it on old pieces of paper. You know, one day I’m going to get it right and it’s going to be on the back of a recipe. People are never going to be able to take me seriously then, are they? But day in and day out I try again, and my brother’s always been encouraging about what I call failures. He pats my back when I burrow my head in my hands and tells me I’ll get it one day, and that it’ll be worth all the frustration it’s caused me. He tells me one day all the pictures I’ll have gotten right will be as numerable as the freckles that cross my cheeks. I sure hope he’s right.

I’m quiet, hiding my words behind my thoughts because I’m too afraid I might trip over them. No one bothers to ask me how I feel, anyway, so I guess it doesn’t really matter. My parents have thrown down whatever gifts they think I might like in exchange for a word or two, so I give them what they ask. I talk about the things I know for sure, like how badly I’m doing in math or the fact that I was the only one that I knew to completely pass the exam in history (even though it was only because my memory had saved a picture of the guide the teacher had given out a night before). The gifts they give me are small and simple, and I assume they should mean something to me. But they don’t. And they never will. They’ll always be forgotten objects strewn about my shelf or thrown against the walls in times of frustration. That’s about all I use them for now, as projectiles aimed at the invisible targets on my wall, the sound of their shattering and cracking far more pleasing than the relief they’re supposed to bring.

Usually the sudden bursts of noise wake my brothers up, and Duncan storms off to lay downstairs, while Cody sits quietly beside me, calming me with songs that resemble the falling rain. He stays awake until I finally drag myself to bed, pulling the covers to my chin. I always wake up in the morning regretful, as I’m the eldest—I’m supposed to be the strongest. Instead, I’m letting that fall to Cody, and every morning is the same: nudge him awake and apologize. Apologize for how much I’ve failed my job, and proceed to crumble apart again. I guess it could be worse; I could storm out of the house like Duncan and not return for days on end. I refuse to go that far, for I couldn’t really imagine leaving behind the ones I care about. Instead, we walk down the stairs and eat breakfast, the four of us, with no place set for Duncan, as he’s usually not here anyway. My mood lightens with the sun that rises, and the early afternoon that follows the morning is definitely my favorite part of the day. I hustle about doing what my parents ask, and only after things are taken care of do I set out on a stroll on the paths by our house.

The things which my eyes take in are so innumerable it would be impossible to list them all. Each one brings some sort of joy to my heart, and my desire to recount them all only grows stronger. I’ve tried multiple times to bring a piece of paper and a pencil with me, as to draw the things as they happen, but I can never keep up. It’s easier to take a picture in my mind, hold it to my heart, and draw it when I return home. I can still never quite get it right, but at least I’ve got the full memory in my head, and not bits and pieces translated loosely on a browning piece of paper. Sometimes Cody will join me, and we sit and talk about the things that cannot be mentioned at home. Mostly they’re good things that our parents would not share our excitement in, but sometimes it was conversation on the things we despised. His never changed, and for the sake of confidentiality I’ll leave them to your imagination, but mine are a different story. Mine are continually changing through a cycle of fearing things to conquering them and then finding new things to fear. I’m in the middle of the stages now, debating between what I’ve already feared and what is left.

I am the oldest of the three kids, but only by a couple of minutes. Cody, my fraternal twin, came right behind me, and sometimes I wish he was the older of us. It’s not like the few minutes make a different, but the technical term of “eldest” falls to my shoulders, and that’s not a title I’d like behind my name. I’m not brave enough to hold it. Cody may not be the most adventurous, but he’s definitely got the most sense about him. He thinks with realism that holds his feet to the ground, whereas Duncan and I float about with our pictures and words. The two of us have depended on him our entire life, for advice and things of other sorts, and not once has he ever left our sides. He sticks it out for better or worse, picking us up when we fall face-first. I think Duncan and I both appreciate it more than we’re willing to say. I know Duncan won’t say it, he never has. I have tried multiple times over the years to tell him, but I’ve never been able to get it out in the way I plan.

I was eight when I tried to thank him the first time. A couple of older boys had been picking on me, and Cody, when the right moment appeared, smooth talked us both out of the situation. He had never asked for any thanks or favors in return, but I made sure to clean up his side of the room for the next several days. I don’t think he ever noticed. I was fourteen when I tried again. We were both struggling with certain things when it came to academics (what we did anyway) and for him, it was math. Well, it was math for both of us, but that’s beside the point. I tried desperately to help him, but having trouble myself, gave him the wrong answers. We never really got in “trouble” for it, but we were both given scolding looks the next morning. He never got mad, not that I know, and he told me to do nothing more than laugh it off. That’s an ability I’ve never possessed, the ability to take something bad and turn into a thing of humor.

The three of us all together have always been a two versus one battle. From the moment Duncan was born Cody and I got excited, because we were determined to teach him what we had learned. Of course, at the time he was born we were still young, so it wasn’t until about age six until we really figured out what we meant by that. We started then teaching Duncan everything we knew, things like how to talk to adults and how to cut down a low-hanging limb. With each passing day, we noticed he didn’t care. He didn’t want the guidance we were so quickly forcing upon him. He’s still distant, saying nothing more than a “good morning” and even that’s only once and a while. We’ve never tried to stop him when he storms out of the house and slams the door, but we do worry about him. The world he thinks is nothing more than a story is out there to get him, and the world I believe to be nothing more than pretty pictures is not my friend. Cody stands between us with his feet planted firmly on the ground, and does his best to keep us both there as well.

OTHER
Owen Bowers-Fox
age: 18
district: 8
gender: male
face claim: James Maynard
codeword: oDair
words: 512 + 630 + 587 = 1,729