Pedro

Admitting he was wrong meant giving his older brother the upper hand. He couldn’t face the defeat. Juan was always perfect. Handsome, smart, sporty, his brother was your classic psychology textbook overachiever. Pedro hated it. Juan was the centre of attention in the family. When both had developed a crush for Julieta, Juan had totally dismissed his little brother’s feelings (which, to be fair, Pedro had never communicated to anyone, so nobody actually knew he liked Julieta) and asked her out on a date. Ten years later, Juan and Julieta were engaged and preparing their wedding. Pedro was distraught. How could he have let so many things slip from his fingers? It had to be Juan, always on top of the world and overqualified for any position, including being the owner of a woman’s heart. Pedro had chosen the wrong course to study, the wrong woman to propose to, the wrong flat to rent... Nothing ever went quite right with him.

Juan's union to Julieta was planned for Saturday. Pedro sighed heavily. The sight of them stung like acid spilled onto his cornea. It was enough to scar his eyes for a whole night. And one long sleepless night can destroy your brain cells' capacity to function normally.

Pedro watched Juan as he stroked Julieta's brown hair from afar. Pedro felt his lunch rising up his oesophagus and almost reaching his mouth, ready to be thrown up. Juan was sickeningly affectionate towards his future bride. Nauseous Pedro pressed his eyeballs with thumb and index. Ugh, what a cheesy display of affections. Unnecessary. And utterly revolting, he added to himself.

A new supply of bile and acid shot up from his gastric pouch, burning up his throat as it rose. Pedro excused himself and rushed to the side of the building to cry his soul out and vomit every single last calorie from the lunch they’d finished eating a mere five minutes ago. When Julieta had a bad case of a stomach bug, last winter, Juan had nursed her back to health. She had thrown up once in the bucket, if Pedro recalled correctly. Nothing too bad.

The stench of puke that rose from the ejected contents made Pedro sick again. He spilled some more orange-brown liquid and dried his mouth with the back of his hand. Act like nothing happened. Pedro clenched his face muscles to form a smile. What gave him away, when Juan saw him return from the puke trip, was the pallor of his cheeks. Juan eyed him weirdly, and Pedro was sure that if his brother continued to pierce his skin with his pupils, he would certainly bleed where his gaze had touched him. 

“You alright, bro?” Juan asked, turning away from Julieta for half a minute.

 “Yeah, of course, Juancito. I am just feeling a bit chilly because of the wind.” That was the best excuse Pedro could come up with. It wasn’t too farfetched; there was a light breeze blowing icy air into their faces every now and then.

Juan had returned to fully devoting his attention to Julieta. It was like he didn’t even hear him. Pedro was exasperated. This guy, this brother of his, what a thorn in his backside. Always acting perfectly, never expressing any negative emotions. Thoughtful Juan, kind Juan. Sure. Juan was now letting his brother disappear from his field of vision and concentrating solely on his girlfriend. Whatever, Pedro told himself, he had his own life to live. He got up from the grass and excused himself.

 “I’m going home to do some work,” he announced before leaving.

 “Take care, Pedro,” Julieta said, in a voice so sweet it induced diabetes. “Don’t get run over by a car when you cross the street.”

Pedro nodded and scuttled away. Why was Julieta being nice to him now? This was way too much. Pedro shook the annoyance from his mind. His chest ached still from the acidic vomit that had climbed its way out through the oesophagus. It was like his insides had been set on fire. 

As he crossed the street, he almost an into a bicycle, which he cursed at loudly, with wild gestures to accompany his not-so-nice words. Pedro, stung by anger and resentment, mumbled gloomily under his breath for the duration of his walk home. His heart could not bear any more negativity. This was the final straw. Why was this life of his so... Awful?

Without a single thought, he slid up to his room on the second floor and buried his body under a mass of covers and duvets. The day was over. Perhaps his suffering would end with sleep. The cushion was wet with tears that had rolled from his cheeks. Shallow, torturous breaths escaped his chest. How he loathed crying so childishly! Yet Pedro could not stop his eyes from shedding salty tears, nor his ribcage for pressing against his lungs so tightly. He was stuck there in his sadness like a prisoner chained to a metal ball. He pressed his hands against his eyes and raised his knees to his chest so that he adopted a foetus position in his small bed. Finally, sleep drowned the boy in a sea of dreams, all rushing in to fill his mind with vivid images like waves crashing on the shore. With each growing dream, a sensation or projection of his subconscious died to allow the new character to fill up the space.

The following morning, Pedro woke up at nine and went straight to the library (changed out of his pyjamas and wearing clothes, of course) to find a book he’d been meaning to read since it had first been mentioned to him. He still had the embarrassing image of himself standing like an idiot while Juan and Julieta drowned in each other’s eyes. And the puking. The stench infected his nostrils even after he’d washed his skin like a surgeon going into the operating room and brushed his teeth furiously. Disgust rose up his throat and into his tongue, a bitter taste tingling the taste receptors so much that the gag reflex was activated and Pedro was forced to eject bile. The visceral pain that followed only served as a reminder of his misfortune. He held the book in his right hand while catching the digestive fluid in the left. Once he had effectively ejected a glass (in volume) of bile from his system, Pedro rushed to the toilets to get his hands washed up. He left the book on a chair, hoping no one would steal it from him while he caked his hands in soap and sprayed boiling water onto his skin.

He left the toilets. The book was still there, undisturbed. Pedro picked it up and masked his nauseous countenance with the blue book cover, almost burying his nose in its pages. Relief washed over him as he delved into the chapters of his book, and he became so immersed in his lecture that he forgot he’d ever felt sick.

Back home again, Pedro wore an expression of suffering that could have easily been confused for constipation. He crossed the kitchen, where his mother, mamá as she was referred to by her children, was making bread. Her fingers were smothered in dough and the kitchen island was powdered with flour like a mountain is covered in snow. Her eye quickly picked up Pedro’s moody face and she stopped him halfway on his way to his room.

 “Se termina aquí, Pedro! Stop it now!” said his mamá as she wiped her hands with a tea towel. “What is bothering you so much that you must always carry yourself around like a dog who’s had a beating? You have me here making food, you live with your family, and you are healthy!”

“Nada, mamá, it’s nothing. I’m okay,” Pedro replied.

 “¡Cuentáselo al diablo, m’hijo! I don’t believe you. You’ve been crying and sniffling all week, instead of celebrating your brother’s engagement. Julieta is such a lovely and intelligent girl, and Juan promised me he’ll be the best husband for her.” She was getting side-tracked, like usual. She stopped herself before she began a monologue on how Juan had to respect Julieta and how the wedding would be beautiful and quite auspicious. “You are suffering, m’hijo, and I cannot bear that. You are my little one, understand? I care for you and want to know what’s wrong so that I can help you find a solution. There’s nothing that does not have a solution, except for death. Tell me, what’s bothering you?”

Pedro didn’t want to upset his mother with the truth. It lay heavy on his heart. Envy is a poison that spreads through the blood, attacking the eyes, heart and mind viciously until the vision has darkened and a spear of rage and sadness has driven itself through the vital organs, causing intense pain. Pedro was in want of an antidote to his condition, but he wasn’t too sure if sharing his problem would have any therapeutic effect on him, at least not in the short term. Perhaps it would get worse before it got better, like with most medications. Talking and hugging and crying are good for you in sensible doses, are they not? Pedro weighed the benefits against the risks. Finally, he picked his poison.

 “I am sad because I had a huge crush on Julieta, mamá, but I never told her and now she is marrying Juan. I’ve loved her for ten years, and I feel like it has been all for nothing.”

His mother smiled compassionately. She loved both her sons impartially, they were both special in their own way, she thought. Juan was open about everything, charismatic and quick-witted; her little Pedro, instead, was timid and sweet, highly sensitive and emotional, a bookworm that ate more books than meals every day, and an artist who painted the most awe-inspiring pieces. They were both equally gifted. She felt sad for Pedro, because his quality as a sensitive person had turned against him and caused him much pain, but she was also happy for Juan because he was in a happy relationship. She picked up both of her son’s hands.

 “Pedro, I understand it must be painful and sad for you to see her go. But she noticed Juan, not you, and I think a woman’s decision matters very much. She decided to become his fiancée on her own. Yes, they were already together, but she could have opted otherwise. ¿Comprendes, m’hijo?” she added, still holding his hands.

 “Sí, mamá. I understand. I’m just... My pride is wounded, you know, because her choosing him just proves how much better than me Juan is. He is perfect, and I am the ugly duckling brother, the little black sheep! I am not as good as he is, and I never will be.”

The compassion in his mother’s eyes suddenly turned into a burning flame. “You, not good enough! You are a wonderful person, Pedro, you are sweet and artistic, you are a human being! Ah, you make me cry” – and she did cry – “because I am your mother and I know what you are worth. You and your brother are different, yes, but you are both equally amazing. I love you both because you are my babies, bot because Juan can do complicated maths and argue his way out of a mess or because you can paint and draw beautifully. Stop taking yourself for granted, Pedro!”

Pedro was struck by her words. She didn’t usually get upset over such petty matters, but this had evidently struck a chord in her. Mother’s love is unconditional, yet honest. He smiled weakly, and suddenly the tap on his lacrimal ducts was opened and a stream of tears rushed out. This feeling was so overwhelming. What was it? Relief, sadness, desperation, catharsis? Pedro couldn’t tell. His mother’s warm embrace, the two familiar arms wrapped around him, reminded him of when he was a little boy and he’d run to his mother for reassurance after a classmate had made fun of him. Pedro sniffled and whimpered childishly for five extra minutes, then his mother released him from her hold and let him slither to his room.

Pedro sat on his bed looked around. Four white walls entirely covered in his artwork stared back at him. Blue dots on red and white backgrounds, black ink trees in a snowy landscape, some sketches of my family, watercolour portraits and still natures... It was all Pedro. He’d never taken the time to appreciate his work. He’d always felt like drawing and painting was just that – something he did because it was a part of him. No thought went into creating art, no search for inspiration or anything. This was the first time someone made him notice how special he was so violently (in a good way). He was used to others telling him he was a great painter, or that his drawings were “so lifelike”, but their words had never impacted him and he had decided that everyone was just being nice to him.

His mother had said that she didn’t love him because he was a good artist, but because he was worth something. What she had said made him feel doubly special; to be loved for who he was and to be praised for being a master of his daily activities was activating his feel-good senses.

Don’t take yourself for granted, he whispered to himself. Mind and soul were immersed in the beauty of every corner of the room – the light growing from the window, splashing onto the wall; his reflection in the mirror glancing back at him; the floorboards dusty and grey with age... The overwhelming serenity fell onto him like a wave. It was all so beautiful. He didn’t want to go so far to say that life was beautiful, but Pedro did feel that way. In that bedroom he had lived for all his life, with the same walls and the same bed, all was suddenly beautiful.