Twenty two years, three months and eight days

Where should I start? Do I just start talking or do you ask questions? I've never done anything like this before.

"Let's start by telling me about yourself. It says here you're an only child?"

Yes. Well, I haven't always been an only child. What I mean to say is, I am not an only child. Once, I had a brother. He was an older brother. The sort of older brother who didn't really have much time for his younger sister because he was too busy doing his own thing. I have vauge memories of him but most of those, I think, have come from stories other people have told and from photos. But not photos of us together. There aren't any of those. Just photos of him...without me and me without him. I do know that he gave my parents a hard time, or perhaps they gave him one....or maybe it was a bit of both. Either way, when he died, my parents seemed to carry on as though he just never existed. Instead of wallowing in their grief, they had put all of the energy and time into me. And so, from the age of seven, I was raised as an only child. No one ever really mentioned my brother from then on. That probably seems strange to you, I mean....it is strange, but its how its always been, so I guess I am used to it.

"How did that make you feel?"

Being an only child? It certainly wasn't a piece of cake. Part of me wonders what my life would have been like had my brother still been here. Would my life be on a different path now? Who knows! But for a young teen growing up with two sets of eyes watching my every move, monitoring and scruitinising every aspect of my life...it was tough. I envied the kids with brothers and sisters. Their parents seemed less...intense.

"That must have been hard"

The problem only grew worse when they divorced. I was fifteen and running back and forth between two different parents with very different ideas about what I should be doing with my life. Both so intensely involved, both wanting me to do what each of them wanted. Neither giving a damn about what I wanted and neither giving me the space to even let me figure what I wanted out for myself. Yeah...I guess you could say that was hard.

"Is that why you're here today?"

I don't know. No. Maybe indirectly. I'm not sure. I guess I felt I needed to talk to someone but didn't know who. A friend suggested I come here.

*    *    *    *    *

Stepping out into the sunlight, she felt an air of relief float her down the street away from the counciling centre. If she knew how much better she would feel just talking to a stranger, she would have done it years ago. She popped in her headphones and put on her sunglasses and made her way through the streets towards the bus stop. She arrived just as the bus was approaching and flagged it down. The bus was rather empty. Only an elderly couple who had done their shopping and a man in a suit. She walked toward the middle and sat opposite the double exit doors. By the time the bus arrived at her stop, she was the only one left on the bus. Waving a silent thank you to the driver, she stepped out onto the footpath.

Turning to walk in the direction of her home, she noticed an older man with long sandy hair smiling and giving a shy sort of wave. Puzzled and assuming he must be waving at someone else, she looked away and kept walking. The man stood up and followed a few steps behind her. At first she didn't notice him, but as she turned the corner she realised that he seemed to be following her. Her heart beat faster as her pace quickened. As she approached her building's front door she reached into her bag and was just about to put the keys into the lock when he spoke.

"Hey, Polly, wait up."

She froze on the spot. Was this someone she knew? Her mind raced trying to place the face. Perhaps she didn't see him properly. She breathed in slowly and turned around. In front of her stood the same tall, middle aged sandy haired man. His mouth hung open in a goofy sort of smile. She stared at his face, wondering if he was someone she had met before. 

She was sure she would remember someone like this. Most guys she knew had short tidy hair. This guy looked like he was stuck in a ninety's grunge band. His long sandy hair fell across his face and he pushed it back behind his ear. Despite being sure she had never seen him before, something about his face reminded her of her mother. Something about the eyes.

"Have I really changes that much, or do you just not remember me?"

She stared at him, confusion falling across her face. Suddenly she became aware that her mouth was also hanging open in a goofy manner and then it clicked. She did know him.

"You haven't changed a bit. I mean, you're a whole lot older, but I'd recognise you anywhere. You're the splitting image of mum," he said as he approached her reaching out for a hug.

Without speaking she stepped backwards towards the door until her back was flat up against the glass.

"What? What is this?" she mumbled.

"Oh god, what did they tell you?" he asked. "Sorry. Look, I didn't mean to scare you. Clearly I have. I'll go," he said, turning away.

"No!" a voice from inside her jumped out before she could even think. "Don't go."

Curiosity had gotten the better of her fear and she invited him in. Neither of them spoke as they made their way down the hall to her small apartment on the first floor. Nervously, she slid the key into the lock and opened the door.

"Can I get you something?" she asked as they walked into the lounge room.

"I'll take a beer, if you've got one," he casually replied, as if being here in his little sister's apartment all these years later was totally normal.

Without thinking, she turned and walked into the kitchen. She placed her bag on the counter and stared out the window, trying to catch her breath and figure out what the hell was going on.

"Are you alright in there? Can I give you a hand?" he asked after a while.

This snapped her back into the room and she quickly grabbed a beer from the fridge and headed into the loungeroom. Silently, she passed him the beer and sat opposite him on the lounge and stared at him.

"I'm sorry to make an appearance after all these years," he started.

She held her hand up to signal for him to stop.

"Just what the hell is going on?" she asked earnestly. "Have you just suddenly come back from the dead or something? Is this some sort of joke?" she exclaimed.

"Back from the dead? Is that a figure of speech or is that what they told you?Surely they didn't tell you I was dead!" he laughed, throwing his head back and then sipping his beer.

He looked at the stony expression on her face and stopped laughing.

"Oh my god...they told you I was dead? No! Really?" He paused for a moment. ""Somehow I'm not surprised. That's probably what they were wishing had happened. No, Polly...I'm not dead."

"Clearly!" she replied as she sat unmoved on the couch.

"I was in jail. Well, juvenile detention initially and while I was there things happened and eventually I was moved to jail," he told her. "I can't believe they told you I was dead!" he said, but this time he didn't laugh. It was if the idea of his parents creating his death was finally getting to him.

"What? What did you do? I mean, why were you in jail?" she asked in disbelief.

The two spoke for hours. Both expressing their dismay for the way their parents had treated them and the contempt they showed them. They caught up on each other's stories until eventually he said that he had better get going.

She watched from the window as he walked off down the street. He promised to drop in on her again later in the week. She wanted to ring her parents and yell and scream at them, but something inside made her stop. This would be her secret from them. They had kept a secret long enough from her and so she would keep her brother a secret from them. That night she went to bed smiling.