Manos besa el hombre que quisiera ver quemadas.
This saying is about servants who loathe their masters. But if we are talking about kissing hands, we have always been partial to rings.
The young man is at the service of a child. They used to be brothers, but that relationship came to an end as soon as the child realized that big brothers are honor-bound to take care of their little brothers and give up on the world and lay it at their feet.
Every day the child asks, and the young man can’t help but obey. Every day the young man kisses the child’s hand to let everybody know at whose service he is and in whose hands the world belongs now. But he doesn’t kiss skin. He kisses the ring on the child’s hand because there is still a sliver of love in him, and he doesn’t want his hatred to burn that child he once called brother.
Anyway, the young man knows that it won’t be long before the child loses his good fortune. He knows that sooner or later the child will grow up, and he will have no choice but to hand the world over to someone younger. When that day comes, the young man will finally be free.
But that’s not how the story ends. The young man has spent years kissing a ring, he has spent years granting a child’s every wish, and when that child finally hands the world over, the young man will still be bound to that ring. That’s the fate of every genie. It’s well known that all genies started as big brothers. Love bound them to their respective rings, and their fate is to go from hand to hand. Kissing skin. All qualms about letting their hatred burn bright long gone.
Tigers don’t change their stripes. I will always be a big brother at heart. I have seen what happens when someone stubbornly wears a ring that’s two sizes too small. Night isn’t the only thing that falls off. My little brother is headed for a fate worse than mine, and he doesn’t deserve my hatred on top of that.
Maybe if I had a gift, my resentment would burn brighter than any love I had for my little brother. But I’m adrift in my life, and I would rather put this shapeless smoke to good use. Talentless people like me can become anything. There’s no loss. But my little brother’s brain has been shaped by a Muse and there’s still hope for him.
I’ve heard the words talent runs in the family countless times. Without exception, they have been directed at my little brother. My heart is bruised beyond repair, and it would have been less painful if everyone, including me, had just spoiled him rotten. I would rather have given up my share of love, because I understand that first come, first served doesn’t apply to families. I could have gotten used to eating leftovers and never felt worthless a day in my life.
Don’t tell me that asking for a puppy would have been smarter. It would have been my responsibility, and there’s a reason I never even asked for a little brother. But my wish has never been anybody’s command, and he’s just another chore that has been foisted on me.
Who said anything about only having three wishes? What I have are three people at my beck and call. I know that family roles come with an expiration date, and I intend to make the most of it before I become a nobody out there.
If I really had the world at my feet, I wouldn’t hesitate to kick it out of sight. Hell and the sun can fight over the custody of all those best intentions. I only wish to be left alone. Somewhere only I have a say about my wellbeing.
I was born in a house called Neglect. My big brother took it upon himself to raise me. But no one can be three people in one. He tried to love me like a mother. He did his best to guide me like a father. But the big brother in him fell through the cracks, and sometimes I hear the abyss staring at me. A kiss of death right between the eyes. Instead of a wish sweetdreams.
Soon, my brother will be gone. 18 is a multiple of 3, and it seems only fitting that we should say goodbye on his birthday. But I grew up watching movies with happy endings. Starring birds that come home after winter and genies that come back for a visit. But something tells me that my brother won’t follow that script. Because resentment takes root and, unlike feathers, it can’t be molted.
I’m a people pleaser. I was born to grant wishes at my heart’s expense. It has more scars than a tiger has stripes and I have yet to receive a thank you card. But maybe it’s for the best. I never learn, but my heart is only flesh and blood. I’m afraid that further encouragement would only condemn my ghost to an eternal hell.
I’ve seen tigers jump through hoops. I’ve heard that the show must go on, and it doesn’t paint a pretty future for me. Brotherly love may or may not survive the distance, but this wish granting has to end somewhere, somewhen. I can’t be expected to be a big brother to my early grave.
What use is a tongue as sharp as a knife if you still do someone’s bidding, reluctantly though it may be?
You know what the funny part is? We are twins. There’s only a handful of seconds between my brother and me. But apparently it’s more than enough to deny me any sort of mark in the world. The future will belong to him, while I remain chained to the past. Because I was born somewhere firstborns take care of their parents, and the current life expectancy doesn’t leave me room to start my own life, much less my own family.