ab inito / from the beginning.

never miss a beat.

It’s funny what the mind can distort when one is by herself. The innocent creak of a side gate becomes the sinister opening of a switch-blade. The shadow of leaves cast upon the white wash wall becomes the dangling loop of a noose. The fleeting movement of the cat becomes the mass murderer you heard about on last nights six o’clock news. Your own breathing becomes irregular, shallow.

I sit on the right side of the sofa. I do not do this as the result of any particular quirk, it is simply the side on which no cushions reside. If I were to move the cushions, I would surely not be able to place them back as perfectly as my brother had aligned them in their allocated positions initially, therefore I choose to perform my daily tasks around his arrangements. I am alone, could be the only person surviving on earth for all I know. Unfortunately, the rude honk of a car outside dispels this theory.

I realise that it is all too easy to contemplate the yellow roses and impatiens outside while also visualising a hooded, stalking nobody (who would surely become somebody if they were to attack little old me) emerging from the bushes and stealing past the window, carrying some kind of weapon (my imagination tends to lean towards an axe, it’s more Hollywood). The vines whisper to one another and I am sure they are plotting some revenge against my mother for using the hedge clippers so vigorously on them yesterday, perhaps to creep through her window in the dead of night and take her by the throat.

My brother is home. Oh, the agony. He is perhaps, no… definitely… worse than the idea of an axe-wielding madman walking past the lounge room window. As he hurricanes through the house, he sings, “NEVER MISS A BEAT, NEVER MISS A BEAT!!” over and over and over and over and, well you get the idea. I am sure that his incessant yelling would be sufficient to wake up the Pope in Vatican City. I seriously wonder on an average of every five seconds if my brother has obsessive compulsive disorder, ADHD, autism and numerous other behavioural deficits which probably haven’t been named yet.

He sits on the other sofa (also on the non-cushioned side) in a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses.

“Do you like my sunglasses? What d’ya reckon? Do you like my sunglasses? Are they cool? Do I look as cool as I feel? Huh?” he asks.

I nod. “How much were they?”

“One hundred and fifty.”

I scoff. He takes this as disapproval of the sunglasses. I must reassure him, once again, that he does look as cool as he feels. I am scoffing, however, as he had told me just that morning that he couldn’t possibly spend one hundred and forty nine dollars and ninety five cents on a wireless internet modem. I must not have realised that sunglasses are infinitely more important.

I get up just as my brother is chucking a tantrum over the cat being on the couch. He makes movements like a wild goose, attempting to discourage the cat. The cat looks at him as if he’s gone loopy.

I think the cat has the right idea.