Scars

I'm sort of a wonder in my family, an oddball. All stemming from the simple fact that, of everyone (and, I'll admit, my family is rather large) I'm the only member that does not date. That never has.

It's disregarded, often, that most of those who do are drug-addicts and dipsomaniacs, many of whom have mothered and/or abortioned more children than they can handle. As well as various other things that can easily be held against them. It just seems to fall to their attention that I'm strange since I choose not to date.

I have my reasons, but that's besides the point. Beyond their line of vision, it would seem.

And so, my brother took to calling me a dyke. Queer, a lesbian. Anything, really, that could come to his mind that has any reference to homosexuality. For three years now, since I was thirteen. Since, apparently, that's the acceptably, expected age to start dating. And, since he says it in a comparatively joking manner, my parents never mind.

But I'm hardly so old as to not be affected.

At times I'll come to wonder what it's like for those who truly are homosexual, how it must feel to have so many people against you. I'll beg a question in my mind more often than not, but who am I supposed to ask it? Really, where do I expect to get?

At any rate, it finally came to my mind to write a story for a lesbian character. Nothing over the top, really. Nothing far too in-depth in romance. Partially because I really don't know anything and partly because I've never done so well with romantic scenes anyways. Emotional trauma, sure, but relationships are rather too complex. Especially when I know so little.

It's not an effective way of stopping my brother, I know, especially considering no family ever sees any of my writing. But it's something new. That's always something when you bare your scars.