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Very Little

My father is such a discreet and distant man that after twenty-one years of being his son I still do not know what he does for a living, neither do my older brother, or my mother, and that is certainly stranger because they met while she was working for him. She left whichever her job was to devote herself to her family without having the slightest idea of what raising a family means. Probably her experience working with my father in their highly qualified job of which nature she was clueless too, helped her at the time to embark herself on the challenge of being a mother, an activity whose responsibilities and duties she was, at the very least, equally ignorant. Ours, like many other families, is a collection of individuals of different ages and genders that for biological reasons happen to share the same roof and eat their meals with each other more frequently than with anybody else. My twenty-three years old brother by reason of his age makes of my the youngest member of the family if we don’t include in the equation some recently purchased inanimate objects of the household that we certainly cherish decline to consider as part of the family nucleus. I always expected that with the pass of the years I would overgrow my older brother and become the older brother myself but his stubborn insistence to age at the same rate I do  has made of that a futile expectation, a fact I always reproached him. We live in a house whose external appearance is indistinguishable of the hundreds of  identical constructions that populate our suburban community albeit the families living inside do vary significantly as do their respective tastes concerning decoration, which always made me wonder how their houses will look seen from the inside.  Our house is a two stories building with some windows scattered on the walls and a door that we use to cross in and out our home. Many of the walls inside the house are  painted pale pink because that is my mother’s favorite color and she painted them herself because my father is always too busy doing whatever he does and also because pale pink is his color of choice for wall painting. Both me and my brother detest pink in general but feel a special hate for pale pink so I painted my room black and my brother who also dislikes black painted  his half side of the room red just to upset me. He suffers from a condition adequately named color-blindness that makes him to perceive colors as shades of gray which always made wonder why he is so fastidious regarding chromatic matters. A typical family dinner includes the four of us sitting at table in silence while staring our dishes as if there was any chance the salad or perhaps a spoon were about to run away and throw themselves through the window in a desperate effort to make a memorable event of the otherwise uneventful evening.  The sound most frequently heard between the limits of the walls that confine our family home is those of the electric monotonous buzz emanating from several TV screens distributed in strategical points of the house. The largest screen we own is located in the living room where most of the disagreements between me and my brother take place, mostly concerning the ownership and rights of use of the remote control. As in every other area of our lives my brother and me have utterly different interests and tastes. When he is in control of zapping channels I am forced to endure sport channels broadcasting transmissions of all kind of competitive activities whose inevitable outcome is the excessive perspiration of their participants, a detail I never fail to find disgusting. I am exclusively interested on programming whose only prerequisite to enjoy my full attention is a total lack of qualms or restrictions in the depiction of graphical violence. But most of these confrontations come swiftly to an halt in the rare cases our father takes over the living room on the grounds of his rightful ownership of the screen and the room that contains it. In these occasions we are both forced to endure the viewing of news broadcast that are the only sort of television programming that our father tolerates and that induces in him a sort of cataleptic trance. Otherwise we retire to resume our confrontation over the ownership of the remote belonging to a smaller inferior quality television set that is located in our shared room. But those are rare occasions because our father habits are more suited to a boarding guest than those of a family member and he will go to any length necessary to minimize contact with the rest of us. To such a purpose he had installed his own TV set in his room where he spends most of the time behind a locked door watching news channels and catching up with his work whatever it is. My mother also has her personal tastes and preferences regarding television and she is essentially addicted to talk shows that deal with family tragedies of all kinds, being those tragedies of the physical kind or emotional in nature . She will stare fixedly for hours to the small portable TV set over the kitchen counter while her body performs with unflinching mechanical dexterity the activities she knows she is expected to perform. Utterly unmoved from the highly emotionally charged unfolding of events beamed from the screen she will spend hours peeling a carrot as if submerged inside a bubble of decelerating time and oblivious of her surrounding. There are no other beings you could ever expect to spot inside our house on a rational basis because we have neither pets nor friends. It is possible that my father has colleagues that busy themselves in the same unknown activity my father is paid for performing and, albeit unlikely on account of my father’s nature, it is in the realm of possibility that some form of interaction has developed between them with the pass of the years albeit such a notion seems far fetched on the basis of my knowledge. My mother doesn’t relate with other people for reasons that she has taken always good care to hide from us, as if fearful we might find suited taking any interest in her motives, a notion almost as ridicule and improbable as that of my father relating to other individuals. My brother is the only member of the family that leaves the house in a regular basis besides my father to go running for hours at a time, an activity that never fails to stimulate my brother’s glands to perspire profusely to the point that his smell pervades the bathroom for hours afterwards. This shared tendency of human race to exude noxious secretions is also the reason why I try minimize the chances of finding myself in close  proximity of other human beings by rarely leaving my room. It is only during in the long hours my brother spends running that I can enjoy this scarce pleasure at the expense of having to suffer his pervading body odor for hours afterwards. While my brother is afflicted for his color-blindness I am blessed by a malfunction of my glands that prevents my body from perspiring, a condition that I find not only a blessing but is also the trait I am more proud to have. On the prevalent conditions and just after  careful calculations I have concluded that the best course of action to obtain maximum benefits is to terminate the existence of my family by any means necessary and then terminate myself, using in both instances an M-16 semi-automatic rifle with full metal jacket ammunition which I judge the optimum configuration for the termination of this game.

GAME OVER

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