I’m diagnosed with being fucked up.
He’s the charming twin, the one who everyone’s attention flocks toward, the superstar of the King family, and the genius of contemporary art.
He’s everything lumped into one supreme existence.
All my life, I’ve watched him soar and fly toward the sky while I’ve remained stuck underground.
I mentally shake my head. I’m not doing this today.
“What are you doing here?” I ask cautiously. It’s not a secret that Lan and I don’t have the greatest relationship. That happens when the person I always cared about labeled me as ‘Spare Parts’ in his contacts.
He meant it as a joke and I reciprocated it, but it cut something inside me. The illusion that we share a bond, maybe.
“I can’t come to see my brother?” He slides a hand into his pocket and I take note of his black trousers that are folded at the ankles. While we both dress elegantly, we have different styles. I doubt he has any khaki trousers or polo shirts in his wardrobe.
“What do you really want, Lan?”
“You don’t believe I’m here to check on you?” He grins. “I’m hurt, little bro.”
“I’m not your little bro.”
“I happen to be fifteen whole minutes older than you. Deal with it.” He ruffles my hair as if we’re back to being kids, and I knock his hand off.
I don’t want to think of our once-close relationship when I destroyed it with my own hands.
Once upon a time, we slept in the same bed and he told me everything, including details I didn’t care to hear.
Then everything collapsed. My mind included.
“Seriously, what are you doing here?” I ask with more exasperation than I usually show.
Might have to do with my exceptionally jittering nerves lately.
“I really just want to check on you. Mum sounded worried on the phone.”
I briefly close my eyes. “I’m fine.”
“Sure, Bran. If you keep telling yourself that often enough, you might eventually believe it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?” I narrow my eyes, but he’s not looking at me.
He physically pushes me out of the way as he stalks to my canvas.
Shit.
Fuck.
Bloody fucking hell.
Sweat trickles down my back as my brother looks at the seemingly haphazard strokes on the canvas. If it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be so worried, but this is my genius twin brother we’re talking about.
The top dog of REU art school and the up-and-coming sculpting talent who’s won multiple awards for his devilishly detailed statues.
His head tilts to the side as he studies the canvas and I want to jump in front of him and hide it. I want to soak it in black ink. But I don’t, or Lan would sense something is seriously wrong.
There are two things that scare the fuck out of me.
My image in the mirror and Landon.
“This is…fucking brilliant.” He whistles.
My chest squeezes until it nearly topples me over. Lan hasn’t praised anything I’ve done in…eight years.
His previous descriptions of my work have been scathingly critical.
Severely mediocre.
Exasperatingly tedious.
Devastatingly unoriginal.
Exceptionally mind-numbing.
Disturbingly boring.
Boring.
Boring.
Boring.
That’s my twin brother, ladies and gentlemen. He pulls no punches in telling me how bad I am compared to his otherworldly talent.
It doesn’t matter how much my world-renowned artist mum and the professors have liked my work. It doesn’t matter how many awards I get for my technically superior nature scenes.
Lan has never liked any of them. Not even one.
“It’s just a fluke,” I mutter, fighting my emotions as I step to the canvas, wanting to bring it down and hide everything it represents.
For some reason, I feel completely raw and naked in front of him. Like that night he hugged me for the last time.
My brother clutches me by the shoulder and spins me around so that we’re both looking at the chaos of red and yellow. The fiery explosion my fingers made in translation of the chaos brewing in my mind.
“If that’s a fluke, do it all the time, Bran. Seriously, this is your best work in a long time.” He squeezes my shoulder. “I told you everything would get better if you stopped shackling yourself.”
I tense.
No. I am still shackling myself. I can’t stop doing that.
I’m in control.
Control.
Control.
Control.
He turns me around to face him as I’m about to lose my fucking shit and spiral down that nasty road.