A/N: Bunny is born on leap year hence the nickname (there's more to it than that but that's one of the basic reasons)-His real name is Matt. I HATE the last name Boulder and he's kind of the un-liked character so he deserves that... LEMME KNOW IF YOU HAVE A BETTER IDEA FOR HIS LAST NAME ;D If you can, please help with the plot and title :O I have no idea where this story is going haha... oof. ENJOY!
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"Underprivileged doctors, such as myself, wish you a broken leg. Good luck," is not something you should ever wish or claim to your younger sibling as her theatre group scurries en route for the stage. However, the eldest brother had not meant this joke to be taken seriously, otherwise he would have piled this negative comment with a few million positive comments until our sister would have been pulled away onto the stage with the eleven other young adults.
After a long dragged out pause connected with eye contact the sister replied with a questionable "thanks" that held room for another long break of words. Slowly, she turned and headed up the steps to the stage floor and prepared for the uprising red curtain by lining up and freezing into what I heard from the oldest brother was a "very uncomfortable and seemingly painful pose".
Perhaps now I should mention to you who these darling siblings are. As for yourself you may not have met these lovely beings and may be thinking that that those siblings cover the entire family, yet they do not. They cover only one of the brothers and only sister out of the Rayne family. Logan Rayne, the oldest brother at the age of twenty-six years old - already avoiding the fact that balding could approach anytime soon by leaving his head buzzed - is, in fact, a married physician (whose wife was not able to attend the performance of her sister-in-law, for she had to take care of her own daughter's errands and she gave her amends as she wishes to be here with Logan and I).
While Logan was giving our sister, Helen, wonderful words of encouragement, I was sitting quite comfortably within the audience in a red chair (among many red chairs that all seemed to be built-in to the auditorium) and waited for the show to begin. The rest of my family, (which did include one more brother, a mother, the mother's fiancé, a deceased biological father, and one cat) was also not able to attend Helen's twelfth theatrical performance in her nineteen years of life. Seymour, the second oldest brother at twenty-one, had not been able to make it because he felt like he needed to take time and release his creativity onto some manufactured sort of paper while listening to The Beatles. My mother, Annie, felt it was necessary to go run the marathon with her beloved new fiancé, Martin Boulder. It was as if she was feeding off this new life so she could forget about our real father, Walker Rayne (who has been dead for twelve years now). Our dad was the life source everyone greedily devoured if they were accumulating a bad day. No wonder why he was feeling exhausted and unintentionally crashed his car into a thick oak tree after work, ending his life with us forever.
Thus Walker was not able to attend the act and neither was my cat who lacked the ability to walk around for longer than several minutes before passing out on the nearest article of clothing. I believe he would prefer to be a human and attend this presentation with us so I shall pass on his amends to you and later to Helen (once the show is over).
When the curtain was drawn, their awkward and painful pose was viewed publicly to everyone and the audience stood and roared with clapping and whistling. Logan jogged carefully up the stairs and then stood by the red seat next to mine that became his chair after pleading other audience members to shuffle one seat to the left. As soon as it quieted down (while Logan was still organizing a place to seat his ass), the play began with lights and an "Action!". I'm afraid there is no camera here, so please excuse this pause as I watch the play. Thank you!
How marvelous was the play, you ask? Splendid. Extraordinarily splendid. If you wouldn't ask how marvelous it was, then I would just go along with my day, pretending as though I have seen nothing of the sort.
Don't get me wrong, I love all my sister's plays (really, I do). However, this one is an exception. What playwright writes a dramatic play about spoiled cheese? There is a question that does not deserve an answer but deserves a comment or the nodding of a head.
Two hours of watching my sister play Madame Corinne (to be frank, all she did was carry spoiled cheese). As the main character, she went shopping for bread (but all the bread was gone so she bought cheese for her orphanage in France). Throughout the story, she is trying to bring cheese to the starving children and every once in a while, someone or thing stops her from allowing the cheese to be given (heartbreaking, I know). That is how the entire play goes until, alas, Madame Corinne approaches the orphanage when suddenly she realized the cheese has become ghastly. The End.
At least the children did not perish from starvation (or food poisoning). The whole town had noticed this depressing end for Madame Corinne, so they all pitched in and brought them their bread. How ironic.
Despite all my condolences for Helen having to play Madame Corinne, I really must hand it to her. Besides the dastardly plot, her character shined through phenomenally. Helen can take what people give her and turn it into a unique masterpiece (as what most of us Rayne's do - except for me of course), no matter how horrendous.
Please forgive me, for I normally do not rant. At least not out loud, and hardly to an innocent reader such as yourself. Yet all in all, please do not misunderstand that my hatred is not towards France, orphans, or cheese, but all in that astonishingly (I would love to say horrible)plot.
As promised, my rant is over. Thank you for your incredible fortitude.
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Stepping cautiously into Seymour's messily decorated room (with every bit of wall and floor covered by a foreign object of some kind to the white paint or grey carpet), I noticed something peculiar lying on his bed. Dodging the sharp objects and stepping on the plush ones, I finally had conquered his warzone of a room and reached the strange board. Out of canvas, it was made, with splatters of different colored paint haphazardly plotted on it.
As I contemplated its alibi, I felt an uneasy breeze as though someone has just stepped in. As a result, I peered over my shoulder to find Seymour casually leaning against the doorway frame.
"Hi, Seymour." I replied far too quickly, for an uneasy air fell upon the crowded room. Thus, I tried to continue the short-lived conversation so it would dissipate. "What's the idea behind this painting?"
He walked through his room with his long legs dragging along the floor, not even bothering to move his feet out of the way of books. I nearly fainted. Books are meant to be read, not meant as a welcome mat. "Nothing other than just trying to find my favorite color . . ." Seymour claimed, sounding as though there was more left to his words.
"Ah," I replied slowly, as if giving it some nonexistent artistic thought.
For a brief moment, Helen passed through the hallway, only letting us catch a glimpse of her very long, wavy, dark brown hair that was generically passed down in the family. I was the only one in the family that had received Walker's scruffy light brown tresses.
Apparently our sister had revived a forgotten question in Seymour's fascinating mind, "How was the play?"
It took me a while for my mind to return to my brother's room, yet once it had arrived it was still unpacking from its trip. ". . . ah, the play? It was . . . marvelous."
His brown eyes stared blankly at me as they always seem to do. "Really." However, I could tell he was surprised. Not many inhabitants can read Seymour as well as we do. With him, it's not in his hair-swathed eyes, it's in his body language and art.
"Uh . . . huh." Apparently, he had heard otherwise.
It was silent, yet far from being awkward. You find that you are used to it after seventeen years of being alive and siblings together.
"So, have you found a color yet?" I asked my older brother.
"Oh . . . not really."
Taking a glance at his painting, one color in particular caught my eye. "How about this one?" I inquired as I held up the canvas and pointed to the brightest orange.
He smirked. "You would, Bunny," he nearly said to only himself. "Nah, that color doesn't work."
In the company of Seymour, everything either works, or it excruciatingly fails. If he does not feel that it is right, then he abolishes the thought on the spot.
"What about that purple in the corner?" Helen called from the hallway as she waltzed passed the door again.
"Colors? If you're looking for a good color, then opt some sort of blue," Logan's voice supposed faintly from the kitchen.
Seymour heaved a heavy sigh then replied, "My favorite color, not yours. Nonetheless, thanks for the input." He walked around me and then rolled onto his bed, breathing in the thin threads that make up that wooly maroon fabric. "Mis mells meird," came his blanket muffled voice.
"Really?" I walked over to the blanket and pressed my sensitive nose against it, then got back up. "It smells like...what is that, strawberries?"
"Meah, mor moconut."
"Strawberries and coconut are completely different." I stabbed the blanket with my nose again, "Mit's more mike mruit munch."
"What's more like 'mruit munch'?" Helen called from the doorway with headphones hanging limply around her neck, snickering a little. When she saw us, she completely froze and questioned our methods in a dead tone: "Why are you making out with the blanket?"
Seymour and I raised our heads from the maroon quilt. "What does this smell like to you?" I asked as I lifted the fuzzy blanket and chucked it at my sister.
She caught it without a sweat and pressed it to her face. Serious, her eyes lifted up and stared out into space, beyond Seymour's messy room. After several moments, she looked at me then declared it smelled of coconut.
His brown eyes just stared blankly at me again, but the corners of his mouth curled up. Clearly he was enjoying his victory.
"Fine, you win." Is there ever really a time when he doesn't?
The answer to that one of many rhetorical questions is no. Forlornly, I believe that is quite true.
* * *
I fully understand that my rant of the disastrous play has long been over - I fully apologize - but the matter has been brought up to the surface once more by my wonderful and darling actress of a sister.
"You guys never told me what you really think of the play," Helen claimed as put her used fork and plate (which I might add that is half full of rice - I swear, she hardly consumes anything) away into the sink by the counter. We all eat dinner either standing up or at the counter; scarcely ever at the table. However, when we do eat dinner together, we are almost always accompanying guests. Spastically, Helen changed the song blasting through her headphones as if she were to die if she heard one more fading "ba dee dum".
"I said it was marvelous," I stated blandly through a forkful of rice.
Logan, grabbing a plate and filling it with the organic rice sitting on the stove, said, "So did I."
As usual, Seymour stayed resolutely silent as he ate dinner (or any meal for that matter). The only sounds coming from him would be the squeak of the chair, the scrape of the utensils, and the gulping from him drinking milk. He drinks milk with everything.
Now drumming her purple fingernails on the counter along to the beat of the song still blaring, Helen continued, "I know, but most people didn't appreciate the play so I'm wondering if it is as marvelous as you two claim it to be."
"Well, I don't know about Bunny," Logan said, as if hardly noticing me glaring at him, "but I especially liked the character you portrayed."
Helen stared vacantly, then pressed the pause button. "Sorry, I missed that, what did you say?"
"He said that we both really loved the character you portrayed," I said through gritted teeth. Logan glared at me. At times like this, it is quite inconvenient to be the shortest of all your brothers, but still relatively at the same eye-level.
"Oh, okay. That's great, thanks!" Helen pressed the play button and then turned on her heel and headed for her room down the hall.
After Logan moved out of our family's apartment and in with Delaney, an extra room had been left over. Helen, being the only other female (I am rejecting our mother's gender at this moment), had always received the ultimate freedom of her own room. However, Seymour and I had (pitifully) only recently advanced to being independent beings with separate rooms and closets. Even with our new closets, our socks are still never to be found. We would go through years without our socks and never understand why. Finally, the scenario would end up with something resembling us finding one in our green couch, never understanding what had occurred to the other. That is the reason why our family always acquires and wears different socks - even when we buy a new pair. Force of habit? I believe so.
After a while, Seymour spoke up and asked, "When is our parental unit coming back?"
"She and that Martard aren't supposed to return from their marathon run until - I believe she said seven o'clock - so not for a couple hours," Logan answered.
Seymour's dark, unruly hair swished a tad as he nodded in acceptance.
"LAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!" As soon as that high pitch noise blasted through the quiet apartment, our hands darted for our ears.
"WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?" I shouted.
"Sorry!" Logan apologized, still with one hand against his ear, he shoved other in his back pocket and silenced the cell phone. "That was the new ringtone that Kitty made for me."
"That thing was Kitty? She's four, for crying out loud."
Seymour chuckled, "Kat-zilla."
Logan took out his phone and swiftly checked the caller-id. "Oh, it's Delaney," he said with the phone to his ear (already phoning up our sister-in-law) and walked out of kitchen.
I stared at the door he walked out from and then turned to Seymour. "Kat-zilla is right."
After several moments, Logan waltzed back into the room and with a placid manner stated: "That was Delaney pleading for me to go back home, so I'm going to head out."
"Ah, okay. Have a safe trip, Logan," Helen said from the hallway.
"Yeah, see you later Logdog," I averred. "Tell Katelyn that she should never make a noise like that again."
"Not on your life, Bunny." He grinned widely then burst out into a small snicker.
"Thank you, dear brother, I loveyou too," I snickered back.
A little while later, Logan noticed that Seymour was missing so he looked around and called, "Bye, Seymour."
"Yeah. Bye," Seymour said as he walked up to the front door.
After Logan was deported from our home by his wife, Sir Isaac Newton waddled over to the front door and demanded to be let out to roam about the residence building. "Meow."
"What do you want, Newt?"
"Dude, you'll want to come back in as soon as I let you out," I asserted.
The family cat protested, "Meeeeeooooow."
I heaved a sigh. "Fine, but don't go into the elevator." Our landlord allows cats, in fact, he adores cats. He doesn't mind whether or not we let Newt out to roam around the building - under a few circumstances of course. Thus, I allowed the fat, fluffy, bleach blonde cat to meander.
"Meow." He gratefully accepted the open door of room 921.
Silence soon rested upon the apartment, which it used to never do when Walker was alive. He was an energetic but calm, happy-go-lucky person. Unfortunately, I hardly remember him (for I was only at the spastic age of five), but Helen was seven, Seymour at nine, and Logan the confusing age of fourteen. They all remember him quite well, which is why they all despise Martin. Being the baby of the family, I really don't mind him. Marty just floats around Annie from place to place, feeling like the awkward addition to the family that he is. Seymour and Helen ignore him but hate him behind his back, but Logan just outright abhors him. He makes it palpable to everyone that he loathes him. I sort of feel bad for that Marty guy. Sort of.
I ambled back to my room and rolled on to my bed, staring at the white popcorn ceiling. I can never remember what those ceilings are called. With no creative ability (unlike the rest of my family), I could not find any pictures in the crevices of the popcorn. When Seymour and I still shared a room, I recall that we would stare at the ceiling whenever we were bored. He would keep finding representations of things in it, one after another, while I would have trouble finding just one. Look, he would say and then point at an vacant space in the popcorn, doesn't that look like an elephant? I could never understand how he saw anything in that damn popcorn.
Dragging my backpack onto my bed, I filed through it and searched through my scattered papers to find my assignment. Fiddling through my drawers in my desk, I scavenged for a pencil. I finally came across Helen's favorite pencil that she lost several days ago. It was a flushed purple with bright yellow smiley faces strewn on it.
I tossed it back into my drawer, promising myself that I would tell her I found her darling pencil.
However, somewhere in the back of my mind I knew I'd forget. Sorry Helen, I thought in advance and I began my escapade of searching for a different pencil.
ENDDDD of Chapter ONE. I hope you didn't suffer too badly D;