Chapter 7 run with scissors (6)

Agnes suppressed the hatred for a long time, and it surfaced like a dead fish: "Hmph, Bostonian, I can still remember what you were like back then, when you were a five-year-old child, pestering me all day To eat popcorn." For those of us not related by blood, watching the Finch family squabble is as poignant as watching a pornographic movie.It makes us eager to try our hand at replicating it in our own homes. "Hmph, yes, you're a bloody inferior mother." That's what I'll probably yell at my mother when I go back that night. "And you? You're a goddam selfish son!"

Even if Dr. Finch wasn't sitting in an armchair applauding everyone's performance, he would have lost no time in loudly encouraging it. "That's great kids, this is how you vent your anger," he said over the noise in the room. "Exit it, vent it, vent it all!" I have a brother, seven years older than me, who makes my life complete.I have always suspected that his life was unsound, lacking something essential.He doesn't have to go to the movies so often to stay alive, and whenever I try to tell him I'm going to start a beauty empire, he always suggests that I better be a plumber.My brother, Troy, was not like anyone else in the family.He is not like my mother, who is often in a state of madness, nor is my father, who always has a face ten times darker than a painted road.

And he couldn't understand why I valued everything that was different, or that sparkled. Some people think my brother is a genius.One thing is certain: he was twelve years old when he was able to program a computer the size of a refrigerator.By the summer of his fifteenth year, he could read the Encyclopedia dictionary item by item, from A to Z.However, I don't think he's a genius.I feel like there's one important aspect of his life that's missing, and that's star quality. "Listen to me, let me cut off your beard for you, and you will look more handsome, just like Majors in the big star." I said to him, waving the scissors in my hand.

"Eh?" he muttered, "Who's that guy?" My brother usually only uses this method to communicate with others, which is to mutter in a low voice, or make a "hum" in his nose to express disdain.As you can imagine, this may have come from the vice of some distant ancestor. In a restaurant, when the waiter brought us the menu, he would look up from the technical manual he was reading and say, almost without thinking, loudly, "I'd like a meatloaf, and five glasses of iced tea. "In fact, when he said this, the waitress had just walked up to the table and hadn't had time to say: "Hello——"

My mother attributed my brother's rather rude personality to my father's poor upbringing. "Poor Troy," my mother said, "it's all his goddamn son of a bitch daddy that broke his heart and made him barely talk like a normal person." My brother would look at me and mutter, "Do I look, really, that bad?" I said, "Well, you're not too smart anyway." To me, he's not particularly frustrating.He doesn't seem to have any emotion, just mischief and a sense of humor, but he wants to base his happiness on other people's pain at the expense of other people's feelings.

Once, he called my dad in the middle of the night and told him I'd been arrested for drinking and wandering the streets of Northampton and needed bail from jail.My dad was shocked, but not too surprised.After he got dressed and got his wallet, my brother called again and told my dad it was a prank. "Troy, stop making such jokes!" My brother replied with a big smile, "Okay, not from now on." When he was sixteen, he moved out of our house in Lifred, so he never had anything to do with Dr. Finch's family.He'd seen them all and thought they were all crazy.He also thought our parents were nuts and stayed away from them as much as possible.He designs electric guitars for the rock band KISS, so I have a certain awe for him.

At one point, he even let me travel with them as part of the band's fans.They played at the Nassau Coliseum in New York, and not only did my brother pay for the whole trip, but he even picked me up from the airport in a white limousine. I can sit near the stage and watch the band rehearse.I saw them without make-up, and I saw Paul Stanley, the frontman of the band, talking on his cell phone, which was the size of a semi-automatic assault rifle. During this time, Gene Simmons came up to me and jokingly said, "Hey little guy, want to see me without clothes on?" I told him sincerely, "Yes."

He laughed and took off his jeans so he could change into his performance clothes. I couldn't take my eyes off him until he made a funny look at me and walked up to the microphone on stage. Sometimes my brother would drive up to Sixty-seventh Street to pick me up.Once, he drove a new Ford.I sat in the brown velvet seat, and he told me, "This car has quadraphonic sound, do you know what that means?" The jargon was peddled to me and the science behind quadraphonic sound.He explained it to me in terms of sound engineering, to be exact, and then he asked me, "Do you understand now?" When I shook my head again, not understanding, he just shrugged and said: "Hey, maybe you just don't have enough brains!"

He didn't mean to hurt me.I know exactly this.In his view, maybe I was born with some mental retardation, so it is difficult for me to understand those theories that are completely simple in his view. Dr. Finch tried several times to get my brother treated, but to no avail.My brother sat politely at best in the doctor's office, his thick arms draped behind the sofa.He muttered, "I don't understand why I need to be treated and I don't eat sand." When the doctor pointed out to my brother that family conflict affects everyone in the family, my brother still muttered: " No, I'm normal."

So a hypothesis can be made: my brother is out of his mind beyond cure, and I suspect he may have a serious character flaw. I know the truth could be worse.From birth, my brother had no interest or desire to be normal. "You can't just appear in public like this." I said, because I couldn't bear to see that the light yellow woolen pants he was wearing were raised up to almost reach his nipples, and the yellow-green trousers on his upper body The polo shirt is pitifully short, only one-third the size of a normal shirt. "Hehe, what's the big deal with me wearing them like this? How well they fit me."

My brother was such a disappointment.As for popular culture, aesthetic taste, and sophistication, he is absolutely a layman, with no concepts or feelings.If you asked him who the actress Deborah Wagney was, he'd reply, "Is she another pervert in Dr. Finch's family?" But if you asked him to explain how a particle accelerator works, he'd talk Talk non-stop for hours, and he can even use his technical pencil to draw a circuit diagram for you on the spot. It breaks my heart. "You know what, bright light can hurt your eyes," I said, "if you take the visor off." I mean the three-inch thick black visor over his near-sighted glasses. "Hehe, that thing is a burden, it's better to be simple. I like the effect now." My brother said, "Myopia is myopia." My brother has unique likes and dislikes.Generally speaking, when he likes something, he will like it crazily until he is hurt, and then he will be wary and vigilant.His brother treats all creatures he encounters equally, from animals to humans, from hounds to psychiatrists.Most of the people who can influence him have well-developed brains, clever tricks, or can provide him with a lot of delicious food. Only in this way will he win his favor.If my brother felt that someone he knew was worthless, he would ignore him completely, just as he had treated the doctor's family and my parents. His lack of emotional and social bondage makes me jealous as hell.I often struggled with the fact that I was limited by my messy relationships, while my brother was freed from a crippling social burden. For some reason, he liked trains very much.He would chase trains in his car for hours, side by side, along the tracks.Regardless of whether there is a clear road ahead, he always pursues relentlessly. "Hold tight!" he yelled at his car, his leonine voice almost drowning out the roar of the car's wheels on the gravel road. "We must be able to keep up with it and not be thrown off by the train!" My brother also loves cars, he likes to take them apart and put them back together again.Generally, it's pretty funny, but sometimes it's not—it was when we were all little and he liked to play with it on the living room rug. "My God, Troy. Do you know what you're doing? You've got the stroller all over the place, and it's on the living room rug. You can't do that." "Huh," he muttered, "why not?" To him, a carpet is really nothing more than a working platform, and its white texture has a distinct advantage—with it as a background, the black, greasy little parts of the engine can easily found it. I miss my brother a lot and want to see him at every turn.I wanted him to pick me up and take me somewhere else, but when he did pick me up and take me away, I got bored pretty quickly.At the intersection where the road meets the railroad, I stare at the red signal light in the last carriage of the freight train, and my stomach starts to growl, and my brother becomes silent.At most he said, "Look, there's a lot of stuff in the truck." "I just want to live a really good life, you know?" I said.I look at my haircut through the lenses of my visor. "What do you want to say?" "You know, I want to be noticed, I don't want to be nothing." "Huh," he muttered, "then you can be a plumber and people will always notice them." Because my brother doesn't need his parents' company, unlike me, he doesn't feel tortured by their presence. "I can be with them or I can be away from them," he often said. Sometimes, I'll yell, "I hate goddamn dad, he won't pay me for food or call me. He doesn't want to do anything with me. I want to poke him with a meat cleaver." Into his belly!" After listening to my words, my brother said bluntly, with no expression on his face, "Yes, he is worthless." My brother has been someone I have trusted throughout my entire life, even though we seem to have nothing in common at all.But I know that he is a reliable relative that I can rely on, he is as reliable as a mathematical formula. Many years later, he was diagnosed with a mild form of autism known as Asperger's Syndrome.This can explain why he is so obsessed with cars, as well as his unique way of speaking, his stupid personality, and it can also explain why his brain seems to be in a state of dementia, but he has a fairly developed IQ; interest, and I don’t want to discuss soap operas like "Clang Threesome" with me all night. Sometimes I wonder if my brother's life would have been more comfortable if my parents would have taken him to the doctor instead of insisting that he was naturally ruthless and emotionally flawed in some way. Happier? However, I also remind myself that my parents were too picky, especially when it came to choosing doctors.If it doesn't work out, it's unknown that they have missed my brother's life. Thinking of this, I can't help but feel lucky for my brother, because on the surface, he was indeed neglected and neglected, but in fact, he was unconsciously protected. For a long time, Neil and I got along very close.We chat, eat, or go to the cinema.Sometimes, when we came back through the night, he would hold my hand and walk.This is the most intimate gesture between us.The reason for this, to a large extent, is that I hate men who are too close to me, and the skin-to-skin relationship is not what I want.I advocate "spiritual love", platonic love, nothing more.Because of this, Neil often ridiculed me as a "pseudo-gay", or even played it on the spot.No, not even a joke, that was his opinion. At one point, he tried to hug me, even put his head on mine, and I felt the hot air from his mouth, like the hair dryer in my mom's laundry basket.I felt unbearable and felt like throwing up.I tried my best to push him away and cursed: "Damn you crazy! Is there something wrong with you?" "You're the one who's wrong? You're gay, huh? You're gay shit!" His face was flushed, obviously agitated. "If you dare to do this again, I will be rude to you. I will call the police, believe it or not? Also, if you still treat me like this in the future, we will stop communicating with each other in the future. I keep my word." My tone was very firm, I thought he would walk away, but he succumbed and began to tell me if he was right, saying that he must correct his evil ways and return to the right, so I forgave him.In any case, since I have no interest in women in terms of eroticism, and I have a strong liking for men, it means that I am a homosexual after all.I'm refusing to accept Neil's intimacy, I'm afraid it's just that I'm too young to tolerate certain behaviors psychologically. However, one day a week later, he disrespected me again, throwing his promise into oblivion. I went to his house that day and he showed me pictures from his past.He was indeed very cute when he was a child, with delicate features, "Like a lovely angel, everyone must love him." I complimented him half seriously and half jokingly. Perhaps the compliment gave him courage, and he hugged me again and tried to kiss me.My body was pressed against the bed by him, I struggled, and the photos were scattered on the floor. The hard bed board made me almost cry out, I pulled out an arm, and slapped him hard, "Slap!" I was afraid to look up at him at first, my palms seemed to be hurting. "You! You little bastard, you little bastard, you can really do it!" I look up.He covered his face and glared at me, his lips trembling. His eyes made me a little scared, I was afraid that he would retaliate against me, I almost held my breath. "You are so ruthless, my head is about to crack. I hate you!" This sentence made me feel awkward, but at the same time I felt relieved. I knew he would not do anything to me. I exhaled and resumed normal breathing. "I'm sorry, my hand hurts too, I don't realize it. I didn't mean it, but you know... I really can't take it." He moved closer to me again, his face was so close to mine, there was almost zero distance, nose to nose, eye to eye. He said in a low voice, "Now, do you think you're gay? Bullshit, shit, shit!" I was still lying on the bed, I blinked and said, "It's none of your business, kid!" He pulled me up and sat me on the bed.He sighed: "Forget it, it's my fault. Forget what happened today." He held my hand, "Your hand...is it okay. " What a joke!But I was a little moved, I smiled and shook my head, without answering.At this time, I saw a smile appearing on the corner of his bearded mouth. He stood up and unconsciously touched the right side of his face, which was the side that had been slapped by me. I asked, "Does it still hurt? It's my fault, I'm sorry." He gave a wry smile, bent down, and started picking up the photos on the floor. "Have you seen this?" He held up a photo.In the photo, he was in his twenties, tanned all over, and he was swinging in the park.The swing was high, as if about to leap out of the frame, and his deep eyes seemed to be fixed on me intently. "Where did you take the photo?" "New York," he said, and things were back to normal.We started talking about other pictures and he didn't seem to be mad at me anymore. He stood up: "It's getting late, I'll take you back." He opened the drawer and took out a pack of cigarettes.His back was toward me.Through the thin vest, his strong and raised spine is clearly revealed.If I'd lunge--I think I could have stuck my two hands into him!I could have punched his spine too, maybe I could have smashed it, or broken it in two; either shattered or broken. I feel hot on my face. I really hated him a little bit, hated him for going against my will and wanting to do something wrong. He turned around: "Want to smoke?" "it is good." "Here you are." He threw the pack of cigarettes to me. I took one out of it and put it between my lips.He came over with a lighter and lit it for me. I took a hard puff, the cigarette irritated my lungs, but I felt fine.I let the smoke come out of my nostrils like a movie star. I am a little confused and a little heartbroken.I felt like I was in a maze, through countless doors and into countless rooms, from which I could never leave. Neil opened the sliding door of the closet.The first thing I saw was a pile of clothes and hangers, and a camera hung from a hook on the side of the clothes rail.He took out his camera and pointed it at me to take a picture. I wiped my hair, straightened my body, and with a "click", the flash flickered. He stared at me for a while, then sighed: "Let's go." We go downstairs.The girl next door to him was sitting on the couch, smoking and watching TV, throwing cigarette butts all over the floor.My intuition tells me that he has an affair with her, but now there is a crisis. "Hello, honey," she said to me, "how old are you? Like seventeen." "Thirteen," I told her. She was fat, she was fat enough to convince me that she had always been fat and always would be.As she lifted the cigarette to her mouth, I saw her fingers were dirty and rough and riddled with bites.Her hair was disheveled, falling to her shoulders, and it was burnt yellow like grass.Around her neck she wears a delicate chain with a small gilt cross hanging from it.Compared to the cross, her body is too large. "Want a beer?" she asked. I shake my head.She strikes me as the kind of woman who has had unusual relationships with a lot of men.I wanted to ask her what it was like to be kissed by a man. Neil said, "I'll be back in a minute. I have to take him home." "By the way, buy me a few more packs of cigarettes." She began to cough as she spoke.She took another drag on her cigarette and turned her face to the TV. He picked up a bunch of keys on the table, his fingers were covered with crumbs of biscuits on the table, and his fingers were shaking rapidly.He threw the key into the air and caught it smartly. "Are you ready?" Of course I'm ready, I thought. We went outside and it was dark.I could feel the sound of breathing, so I held my breath.I want to keep them in my stomach, don't want to have any more exposure.Parts of my spirit and even my body seem to have flown into the air this evening, and they no longer belong to me. He opened the passenger door for me as if I were a girl.Suddenly, I felt like a girl, and I was humiliated by it; the doors weren't locked. He walked to the driver's side, jumped on it, and started the engine. The seat was icy cold, and my legs kept rubbing against each other, my hands under my thighs.I looked back at his apartment, the windowpane over the door casting a dim red glow that mixed with the blue light from the TV screen in the other room.The other windows were black, as was the house itself.During the day it may be gray or brown, but at night it is always black.There was no lawn around the house, only trash and gravel where it should have been. "Are you still upset about tonight?" he asked me.His car pulled onto the highway. I said, "It's all over, it's nothing." "That's fine. I hope I didn't hurt you." He turned his face to look at me. "Because I never want to force you to do something you don't want to do." I nod. "But I want to tell you, maybe, you really don't belong to... Gay. You are lying to yourself, and you are lying to me." "Maybe, I don't know." I sighed.I don't want to talk, and it's hard for me to say anything.Even if I have something to say, I will keep silent.I just want to think calmly and think about my past, my present and my future. We didn't speak for the rest of the way.The car window in front of me was covered with fog, and the outside was pitch black, which made me feel that there was no world outside the car. Only the roar of the car rang in my ears and hovered in my mind.