MilkyTea

Eunoia (n.) beautiful thinking; well mind.

[milkycattea-blog]

my favorite cousin; *drinking Starbucks*

again, my favorite cousin; *starts to have a full make out session with the straw*

me, visibly watching her do so with a raised eyebrow: "yo, stop molesting the straw-"

cousin; *chokes on Starbucks and wheezes*

[milkycattea-blog]

Normal

ɴᴏʀᴍᴀʟ

(something you can fake)

⇠⇢

Normal is something you can fake really well if you try hard enough. Starting by convincing yourself, and everyone else will start to believe, like a wolf trying to hide in a pack of innocent sheep. Act normally as possible; you go through the motions. Going on through your entire life like this, from one menial faction to the next, never breaking the pattern, and no one will be the wiser. All of them being too ignorant and idiotic for their own good to notice that Charlie is, in fact, not exactly normal.

Them, as in being, the Browns who absolutely are a horrible family of two parents in their late forties and children in their teens — one being near adulthood. Having two sons and one daughter. All three of them have the godly habit to torment him for no explainable reason. And if he could tell, and he would try stopping their annoying nonsense, he can't. As if he spoke, Mr. and Mrs. Brown wouldn't dare to believe him. Everything he said seems to fall deaf on their ears.

Honestly, Charlie sometimes wonders if he's even related to this undesirable family. Judging by the fact he's contrastingly paler than to their more tannish skin tones and that Mrs. and Mr. Brown eyes were a chocolate brown. According to that your genes also determine your eye color, shouldn't he have brown eyes? Well... That's a question he decides to figure for himself.

“Yo, freak —"

The slight quick twitch of his fingers that helped grip his history textbook and his shoulders raising as they tensed showed how uncomfortable he was at that dreaded nickname that originally started when he was six years of age. He looks away from the pure white pages that were decorated with letters and towards Emily, the third eldest in the group of siblings - correction, gremlins.

Charlie blank eyes didn't glance away from the brunette, who leaned against the entranceway of the small, but decent sized, bedroom with her slender arms crossed over her chest. Her dark - almost could be mistaken for black - brown eyes stared at him, a certain hatred and disgust shine in the female eyes and he couldn't care less.

"Come downstairs," Emily continues, tone bland and obvious disinterest shone in her soft features. "Mom cooked breakfast."

Almost, as if he didn't trust the older girl - to which he did, he sniffs the air. The familiar scent of beacon and pancakes filling his nostrils. His stomach growls in reaction to the smell of food, it sounded in his ears and hopefully, Emily didn't hear it too. Charlie gripping the edges of the book he held more tightly as he waited for the girls usually insults.

She only narrows her almond-shaped eyes, her lips thinning as she stares at him. For what seems like an unnerving minute but in reality, it was just an easy second. He shifts in, causing the bed to creak at the movement of his weight, and his eyes glance away from Emily. It was one thing that he could be so easily blunt towards people but it was another for the fact he hates social interaction with other people — ones he wasn't quite trusting with or simply dislike them.

Charlie pinches his lip, causing to go from a light pink from a much of a pale white due to the pressure. It was an odd sort of relief that filled him when she clicks her tongue, annoyed. Her hands being shoved down her pockets when she turns and walks away. Sound of her bare feet padding against the floorboards in the hall echoes before they faded away.

Wasn't that awkward?

Ignoring earlier moments, he swiftly closes his book. A loud slam of it shutting sounds in the room when he does. Charlie places it on the small dresser next to the bed he slept on, dusting himself off as if he sat in something unsanitary. It's very quiet when he walks out of his room.

[milkycattea-blog]

Overreacted how?

“What happened?”

I sighed, retracting from where I had my arm under the table and plopped my elbow on top of the smooth wooden surface. Leaning the side of my head on my open palm. Should I tell her? Don’t even even know her yet here I am. Spilling my feelings out — so might as well.

“He... cheated on me,” I spoke, slowly and I didn’t need to look up to know she’s giving me pity. “and... I overreacted when I saw him in our bed with another guy.”

I bit my lip when I heard a gasp escape from her. Eyes glancing up to see she’s covering her mouth, eyes wide like the sizes of plates. I held back the urge to giggle at her expression.

“Overreacted? How! — I mean, what did you do?”

“Well...” I dragged, my eyes going away from her face.

She moved her hand down away from her mouth to then smile. Bipolar much?

“‘Planted drugs on him and call the cops’ overreacted? Or ‘stuck a fork in his hand’ overreacted?”

“Wha — no!”

[milkycattea-blog]

Father&Journal

I looked at the royal blue colored journal and the darker blue strap that help kept the book shut. My father always told me to write any interesting things I've found so I can always tell my stories to my kids... if I get any. My cheeks flushed at the thought. At that time we both sat on a beige-colored wooden bench in the garden at the back of the house. Being four-years-old at the time, now I was nine—turning ten by tomorrow.

"Dad was always a weird man," I whispered but the corner of my glossy lips perked into a smile. I raised my hand and let my fingertips run over the smooth cover of the journal carefully. "But he had such a way with words."

My father. He... isn't here now, of course, due to the troubles with my mother and her drinking problems. I remember the day just getting home from elementary school and the bus dropped me off in front of my house. The feeling of dread, fear cursing through my nine-year-old body when I stepped through the house door and found my mother holding a broken glass bottle of beer getting ready to stab my father with it. He was shaking as if he was having a seizure in the corner of the room. Covered in ugly purple bruises that was a mix of a nasty yellow and a horrible red.

Luckily I was there to stop my mother. Grabbing her by the wrist and pulling her away from my mortified father, making her attention focus on me while my father had to force himself to stand on shaky legs.

My hand reached up to my cheek, particularly my right one. "I still remember the bruise she gave me..." I softly muttered, it being the only thing heard in my quiet dark bedroom.