Cherry - part 10

Percival

Blame

“Good morning, Zia.” And suddenly, his old urge to ask why they named her Zia comes up again. Who even remembered a more than twenty year old game? He have never known anyone who have heard about it, let alone played it. Why did they choose to call her that? But he doesn't ask. He's afraid to ask. Some part of him doesn't want to know anyway.

He wonder why his dad looks at her that way. That look of pride he never, ever got. At least not a sincere one.

He thought that was what he wanted. A boy, carrying on in the family business. Sort of, at least. Maybe it is because Zia didn't turn out like his mother, and became a housewife instead. She made something – someone – out of herself. So proud he was.

He knows the song she sings exists. She didn't make it up, she took it from that game. A game both of their parents knew and used to play. Zia looks a bit like mom sometimes, that's what he thinks when she puts up her hair, so it looks short. That black hair, that fair skin. That's all mom. Her height is without a doubt something from dad. Her personality is nothing like theirs, though. She's wise in a way only Zia can be. He never saw such cleverness and know-how in anyone else. If it wasn't for their parents, they would have had such great use of each other. He would not only be proud to be her brother, but he would forget the pettiness. If only things had been different. That's what he wonders all the time when he think about Zia. They would have been the perfect siblings and people would talk about them out and about.

It's the game, he ponders, for who know which time in his life. Why did it all had to be about the game? Does she feel special because of that game?

He blames the game.

But he also longs for the song, and keep repeating the sentence he could hear clearly last night.

“Some day those tears are gonna spill...” and the melody in his voice doesn't do his sister justice, but that's all his imagination can handle, apparently.

He pours a glass of juice and shot a glance at his sister, sitting there, looking like a freaking model. How does she even do that, she just got up ten minutes ago? He heard her walk from the bed to the door. She's still wearing her night gown.

All the pretty genes in the family got to her. Another reason to be jealous of his ever so perfect sister. She's a beauty, but does she know how much she can mesmerize others, just by looking at them? She's so modest.

There's no pulp in his orange juice.