This is just an idea that popped into my head one day. There will be more of this. I hope you like it.
I had a brother. His name was Peter. You'd have like him.
No, I take that back. Nobody really liked Peter, not when he was alive anyways. I mean, those who had enough patience to get to know him got along pretty well, but as for the rest of the seventh grade, not so much.
Peter was just twelve when he died. He fell from the top of the bleachers at the middle school stadium. It was all a dare. Dared to slide from the top of the railing by one of his friends, so we heard. We don't know which one; we would rather not. It doesn't matter.
Peter is already dead.
From what my parents say, Peter was unrecognizable when they visited him the morgue. I stayed at home that day, a decision I don't regret. The funeral was closed casket.
But lets sway from the subject of his death; I hope I haven't depressed you all yet. Peter wouldn't like that.
Peter wasn't the one to play video games all day; instead he chose to make my life a living hell (the one thing I never thought I would miss).
One time late in the summer before the accident, he discovered a garden snake in the front yard. Thinking it'd be funny to freak me out; he placed it on the porch, anchoring the poor creature down with a rock. Inside, I was getting ready to leave. I forget where I was going then, but as soon as I stepped out the door, I placed my foot on what I thought was the porch. I'll refrain from going into detail, though I will inform you that what was left of the snake ended up on my shoes. I lost my appetite for a week.
Peter had his moments. Very often, actually. He was short tempered, that was for sure.
When he was about seven, he once started an argument on the best way to eat an Oreo cookie. Instead of ripping it apart and scraping the middle like most kids, he ate it whole and soggy with milk. I disagreed to this and he responded by dumping his entire glass of milk on my head.
I suppose you can imagine I was angry, albeit I was; especially when he received no punishment. The way mom put it was like one of those things that one would insist that you'll look back on and laugh at, and then you never do. I crack no more than a mere grin.
Peter had a way of getting away with things, not huge things, just the sneaky ones; easily concealable. At the time, it seemed like his schemes were seldom consequential, though when they were his consequences were never titanic. Possibly, they were, to Peter anyways, since he was the one heeding them and I cared not about whatever he had taken away. That and I always tried so hard to be good; when I obtained my admonitions I knew I did something wrong.
Right now, as I write this, Peter would be sneaking into my room, peering over my shoulder, probably furious that I'm writing all these 'mean' things about him.
Or maybe he's be shouting at the TV about something he disagreed with.
Or he could decide to be estranged from his friends for a day and throw it away to spend with his 'boring big sister who likes to read'. It has happened before.