My alarm clock blares, another soul-grating reminder that I’m still here – in Short Hills, New Jersey, in a home that hasn’t felt whole for years. My hand slams down on the snooze button. Dad’s smiling face, framed in a photo on my bedside table, catches my eye. It’s an old picture, back when he still lived here, before he traded us in for a ‘better’ life in Massachusetts, complete with a former model wife and a six-year-old half-sister, Audrey, that I’ve never met. As I look at our family photo beside it, where I’m almost edged out at the corner, I feel like an extra in the movie of my own life. For a moment, I stare at the photo, wrestling with a bitterness that’s become my morning ritual.
I’d be lying if I said things were going great after he left; at least not for me. My sister Rachel, who was 15 years old, was doing great compared to me. She was on the Student Council, and she was widely considered by our peers as the most popular 9th grader. I don’t have enough fingers and toes to count how many friends she had, or how many parties she would get invited to.
As for me? I’m perfectly content in the middle of the high school social spectrum, somewhere between cool-enough-to-hang-out-with and not-cool-enough-to-invite-to-parties. And that’s okay. My best friend Michael Alden and I have our own club of Dungeons and Dragons aficionados, and that’s social life enough for me.
My day unfolded just like any other; waking from a restless sleep to confront another stretch of existential mediocrity. And no; before you jump to any conclusions, I’ve always had trouble sleeping, so don’t try to psychoanalyze me. With a groan, I reached over to shut off the infernal noise, but instead knocked my lamp off the bedside table. The bulb shattered, and I sighed. “Well, this day’s already a masterpiece.” I could hear Mom and Rachel laughing downstairs, probably at one of their inside jokes.
After a quick shower that did little to wash away the feeling of existential mediocrity, I dried off, threw on a wrinkled T-shirt and some jeans, and made my way downstairs to have some breakfast before I left for school. I lumbered into the kitchen, where Mom and Rachel were already deep in conversation about some charitable event Rachel was going to be putting on for the Student Council. Rachel leaned against Mom, her head resting on Mom's shoulder as they scrolled through a phone together.
"You don't understand, Mom. If we don't get enough sponsors, we'll have to cancel the outreach program," Rachel was saying, her eyes showing a level of worry that belied her composed exterior.
Mom reached out, tucking a strand of Rachel’s hair behind her ear with a gentle smile. “We’ll figure it out together, honey,” she reassured.
In stark contrast to my unimpressive attire, Rachel looked like she’d stepped out of a fashion magazine with a top that showed a modest amount of her midriff, a high-waisted skirt, and some knee-high boots. “Morning, Sleeping Beauty,” she greeted, a smirk dancing on her lips. “Glad you decided to join the world of the living, but could you try not to look like a zombie apocalypse survivor?”
I yawned. “Yeah, well, not all of us are morning people who jump out of bed ready for a Vogue photoshoot, Rach.”
Rachel chuckled but then sighed and leaned in closer to Mom. “So, Mom, can you talk to some of your connections? You know people who’d be interested in supporting youth programs.” Her eyes locked with Mom’s in a moment of shared understanding, a connection I felt oddly outside of.
Finally, Mom looked up, her attention briefly shifting from Rachel to me, like a reluctant spotlight. “Oh, Damian, how did you sleep? You look as if you’ve been wrestling with a bear."
"Sleep? What's that? Is it that thing people do when they're not breaking lamps?" I replied, pouring cereal into a bowl. "I guess it wasn't my best night. The shattered lamp can testify to that." Mom and Rachel exchanged a look, one that I couldn’t decipher, but it spoke volumes about their silent communication.
Mom sighed, her face tinged with concern, but this time it seemed like there was more on her mind than just my clumsiness. “Damian, I wish you would take better care of your things, and yourself. Rachel always keeps her things so tidy. It’s like you’re channeling all your frustrations into these mishaps around the house.”
“I manage, Mom,” I said, my words coated with a thicker layer of sarcasm. “Just because I’m not the chairman of five committees doesn’t mean I’m wasting away.”
Rachel looked up from her phone, her eyes narrowing. "Cryptic much? Why all the mystery, big bro? If you have something to say, just spit it out."
"Maybe because some of us have deeper layers, Rachel. Not all of us can afford to be surface level all the time. I have my own struggles, you know, even if they aren't as publicized as yours." Rachel’s eyes flickered to Mom’s, seeking silent support, which Mom readily gave with a reassuring nod.
I glanced at Rachel and then back at Mom. For a moment, I thought about letting it slide. But as Mom's gaze shifted back to Rachel, something inside me broke. Finally noticing my expression, Mom refocused on me. "Damian, love, what's bothering you? We are a family; we communicate. Or at least we try to."
My heart pounded in my chest as I looked into Mom's eyes. "Do we, though? 'Cause it feels like we've been skipping some family meetings. Did those get rescheduled along with Rachel's council meetings, or her softball practices? It's like I'm living in the periphery of this family, like a background character in my own life."
Mom's eyes widened, her face flushed with a mixture of guilt and disbelief. "Damian, you are not second best! You know we love you."
"Love's a strong word for a weak feeling, don't you think?" I interrupted; my voice laced with resentment. "It's easy to say you love someone. It's another thing to make them feel it."
Before I could reply, Rachel, who had been silently following the tense exchange, interjected. "Hey, let's chill, okay? Mom didn't mean it like that. No one's sidelining you. We all have our roles in this dysfunctional family drama."
"Rachel, you're not the referee here. No need to blow your whistle," I snapped, refocusing on Mom. "You know what I wish?" I paused, taking a deep, shaky breath. "I wish I felt like I mattered in this family. Not like some backup plan you settle for when you can't get what you really want."
Mom's eyes seemed to glaze over, and her shoulders sagged. "Damian, we can talk about these feelings, but this is the family you have." Her hand reached out to Rachel, who instinctively clasped it, their fingers interlocking.
"Well, maybe it's time this family got a reality check, huh?" I said, getting more frustrated by the second. "When's the last time any of us sat down and honestly talked about how we're doing? We're not a family; we're housemates who happen to be related."
Mom's eyes met mine, her expression a mixture of hurt and defiance. "Reality checks only cash in the real world, Damian. This is the family you have. It's high time you make peace with that."
I pushed back from the table, leaving my cereal untouched. "Reality is overrated. I'll take my chances in the 'Realm of Forgotten Lamps.' I've got to get to school."
Without waiting for a response, I grabbed my backpack from the hallway and slammed the front door behind me. As I made my way down the driveway, I heard the front door open and close again. Quick footsteps followed - Rachel was trying to catch up.
"Damian, wait up!" she called out, her voice tinged with genuine concern.
I quickened my pace, not in the mood for another awkward family moment. This was one conversation I wasn't ready for: not with Rachel, not with Mom, not with anyone.
"Damian, come on. We need to talk about this," Rachel insisted, her voice carrying a rare note of urgency as she trailed behind me, her boots crunching on the gravelly pavement.
"Maybe later," I said, not breaking stride, my eyes fixed ahead. The sun was still low in the sky, casting long shadows on the suburban landscape around us.
"Damian—" Rachel's voice started to rise, as if she were preparing to launch into a heartfelt plea or an impassioned speech.
"Rachel, not now," I cut her off sharply, my voice tinged with an icy finality that I hoped would end the conversation. My fingers tightened around the straps of my backpack, the physical tension mirroring the emotional strain.
The air between us seemed to grow colder, and for a moment, neither of us said anything. It was as if we'd reached an impasse, both aware that the words left unsaid were becoming heavier than those we'd actually spoken. Finally getting the hint, she slowed down, and the gap between us widened until she was just a distant figure. Then, as if she'd hit upon a thought, she yelled, "I get it, okay? I feel forgotten too, sometimes."
That stopped me. I turned back, staring at her in disbelief.
Rachel caught up to me, her eyes vulnerable for the first time in ages. "Look, I might have a different way of dealing with things, but that doesn't mean I don't feel the absence too - Dad's absence, your absence, even my own sometimes. We're not that different, Damian."
For a moment, the weight of her words hung in the air between us. My initial instinct was to scoff, to maintain the emotional distance that had become our norm. But something in her eyes told me she was being genuine.
"Maybe we should start remembering each other," I said, my voice softer.
Rachel nodded. "Maybe we should."
As we parted ways, I resumed my walk to school. A thought snuck into my mind uninvited: be careful what you wish for. I shook it off, focusing instead on the looming Chemistry test that suddenly seemed so trivial, but the thought clung to me like a shadow I couldn't shake off. Walking on, my mind buzzed with questions and unease, another day in the life of Damian, the eternal second-best.
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