I placed the broom back in its corner, along with the cleaning supplies, and stood for a moment, surveying the room. The task was done, though not well. Cleaning had never been my strong suit, and frankly, I wasn't sure it ever would be. My mother had a way of making everything shine as though it had been touched by magic. My older sister had inherited that meticulousness too, and even my dad could make a chore look effortless. But me? My attempts at tidying always felt like trying to fight a fire with gasoline—more mess than progress.
I had always been the wildcard in the family. Impulsive, hot-headed, and quick to challenge authority. If something didn't sit right with me, I couldn't just let it slide. Aggressive might be one word for it; rebellious, another. I didn't mean to cause trouble—I just didn't see the point of following rules for the sake of it. To this day, I'm not sure if that was bravery or immaturity, but it shaped who I was: a storm in a family of calmer skies.
Take my younger sister, for instance. She was the epitome of poise, the one who could glide through life like a swan on water. Always calm, always measured, always ladylike. She married young, to a man who seemed perfect on paper: wealthy, charming, the kind of guy mothers dream their daughters will bring home. She had two kids with him, and for a while, it seemed like she had the life we all envied. But things have a way of crumbling when the foundation isn't solid. Betrayals came to light, cracks turned into chasms, and one day, the marriage was over. Now she's a divorcee, raising her kids with a quiet strength that's both admirable and heartbreaking. There's a sadness in her eyes she tries to mask, but it's there, like a shadow that never quite leaves.
My older sister was cut from a different cloth entirely. Ambitious, disciplined, and as sharp as the needles she worked with every day, she became a nurse and threw herself into her career with everything she had. She was the type who wouldn't be tied down—not by a relationship, not by a family. Freedom was her mantra. But somewhere along the way, freedom began to look a lot like exhaustion. She worked 24/7, always on call, always too busy for anything outside of the hospital walls. Sure, she was financially independent, the kind of freedom she'd always wanted, but at what cost? The irony wasn't lost on me—she'd escaped one kind of cage only to step into another.
And then there's me, the middle child. The odd one out. Growing up, I was the family's problem child, the one who never seemed to fit the mold. Aimless, people called me. A drifter. Trouble. But I didn't care what they thought. Back in my teenage years, I found my own identity in a gang I'd proudly named "The Executioners." Looking back, it sounds ridiculous—like something out of a bad action movie—but at the time, it felt like everything. That gang was my family, my rebellion, my way of sticking it to a world that seemed determined to box me in.
I dyed my hair crimson red back then, thinking it made me look daring, maybe even dangerous. I imagined girls would swoon over my fiery hair and my devil-may-care attitude. I spent hours in front of the mirror, experimenting with different haircuts I thought were edgy and stylish. Now, when I look back at old photos, I can't help but tuck my head under pillow. What I saw as bold back then looks more like a desperate cry for attention now—a kid trying to carve out a place in the world, even if it meant looking ridiculous while doing it.
But that was who I was: the rebel, the dreamer, the one who refused to blend in. For better or worse, that's the person I've always been.
Those were the days. I didn't dwell on them too much; the memories were like faint whispers in the back of my mind, easy to ignore if I tried hard enough. Instead, I grabbed the remote and flicked through the television channels, letting the noise fill the silence. After a while, though, even the flashing images felt hollow.
That's when my eyes landed on the violin. It was tucked away in a corner, half-forgotten, gathering dust like an old photo album no one dared to open. It had been years since I touched it, and seeing it now felt like peering through a foggy window into another time—a time when life was simpler, or at least more hopeful. Back then, the violin was more than just an instrument; it was an escape, a voice when I couldn't find the words.
I picked it up cautiously, as though it might shatter in my hands. The strings felt foreign under my fingertips, the bow awkward and heavy. But muscle memory is a funny thing—it lingers in the background, waiting for a moment to reawaken. As I played, the notes came out uneven, trembling like they weren't sure they belonged anymore. Yet, somehow, I managed to sound… average. Not great, not terrible. Just passable.
But even so, there was something cathartic about it. The music carried a strange weight, a mix of nostalgia and longing. Each note seemed to echo with all the things I hadn't said, all the things I hadn't faced. It wasn't perfect, but it didn't have to be. For now, it was enough to simply play.
I smirked, letting the memories of my so-called glory days flood back. Back then, I was the rebel, the misfit, the one everyone whispered about but never confronted directly. The local folks had plenty of names for me—Dexter, delinquent, ne'er-do-well, good-for-nothing. They made their disdain clear, but I wore those labels like badges of honor. Among my gang, though, I had a different name. They called me "The Snake's Whisper." It had a certain allure, a sinister charm that made me feel untouchable.
As a gang leader, I reveled in the chaos. Picking fights with rival groups, flexing power, and asserting dominance became second nature to me. My word was law, whether it was deciding which turf to claim or which shop to rob. Bread, canned goods, petty theft—it was meaningless in the grand scheme of things, but back then, it felt monumental. A declaration of defiance against a world that had no place for me.
Some neighborhoods feared my presence. I didn't have to say a word or lift a finger—just walking down their streets was enough to send shutters closing and people averting their eyes. I carried an aura back then, a mix of defiance and danger that made people uneasy. Maybe it was the way I moved, confident and unpredictable, or the reputation that followed me like a shadow. Either way, I knew the power I held over them, and I relished it.
To me, fear wasn't just a reaction; it was a currency, a sign that I mattered, that I was more than the aimless drifter people thought I was. Kids whispered my name in hushed tones, warning each other to stay out of my way. Adults muttered prayers under their breath or crossed to the other side of the street when they saw me coming. It was intoxicating, the way their fear validated me.
But now, sitting in the quiet of my apartment, those memories felt hollow. I wasn't that person anymore—not really. The neighborhoods no longer feared me; they probably didn't even remember me. And yet, a small, stubborn part of me missed the power, the respect, the fleeting sense of superiority that came with it. It was a dangerous kind of nostalgia, one I couldn't afford to indulge for too long.
Still, the memory of those streets, of the way people froze at the sight of me, lingered in the back of my mind like a ghost that refused to be exorcised.
The fights, though—they were something else. Bruised knuckles, split lips, and the thrill of standing over a defeated rival. Those moments gave me a sense of sadistic satisfaction, a twisted kind of superiority. Beating them down, stealing groceries, acting like I ruled the streets—it all fed into this illusion of respect, power, and control. It was stupidity, pure and simple. But in my eyes, it felt like an honorary position. I was someone, even if that someone was a menace.
Now, sitting in my empty apartment, the absurdity of it all hit me. I laughed—loud and harsh—at the sheer foolishness of my younger self. The sound bounced off the bare walls, echoing in the silence like some eerie reminder of who I used to be. For a brief moment, I could almost hear the cheers of my gang, the taunts of rivals, and the sound of my own voice, barking orders like I was invincible.
The laughter faded, leaving only the quiet hum of the present. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling, letting the emptiness settle over me. Those days were long gone, but the ghost of who I was still lingered, whispering in the dark corners of my mind.