Page 36 of Deviant Need

I want to know what it would be like to feel something for someone, that pull everyone talks about, but it never comes. Plus, I can’t even talk to anyone except Mikhail.

Everyone at school avoids me because of him, because they know if they say something within earshot, Mikhail loses it.

He beat someone with a chair when they made a comment about me being weird. That should’ve been enough, but it wasn’t. A few months later, someone shoved me in the hallway, and Mikhail lost it completely. He went after the guy and his friends from the football team. Six guys total. Sent three of them to the hospital and broke bones on the rest.

The school couldn’t expel him because our parents paid them off, but Father lost it after that. He threatened to pull Mikhail out and send him to boarding school in Russia if he caused one more problem, said he was done covering up for him with the settlements and bribes.

It’s been like this at every school we’ve been to. We’ve transferred five times already because of incidents like this, because Mikhail can’t control himself when someone goes after me. No one dares to say anything to me when he’s around me—emphasis on when he’s around.

I haven’t told him that they still whisper “freak” when I walk past them in the hallways.

That they make gestures behind my back, mimicking the way I fidget. Someone wrote “mute weirdo” on my locker last month, and I scrubbed it off before he could see it. They call me his guard dog’s pet project, like I’m some charity case he keeps around out of pity.

What am I supposed to do about it anyway? Go run to Mikhail so he can put someone else in the hospital? I can’t tell him about what’s happening now because he’ll lose it again, and I can’t be the reason our father separates us.

Whenever Mikhail’s sick, I pretend I’m sick too so I don’t have to be there alone.

The one time he had the flu for a week, I sat through lunch in a bathroom stall because sitting in the cafeteria by myself meant becoming target practice.

Someone dumped their tray on the empty seat next to me the first day. The second day, a group of girls laughed when I walked past, and one of them shoved me into a locker. By the third day, I just stopped going.

When he has practice after school, I wait. Sometimes in the library until they kick me out at closing. Or I just walk circles around the building until he’s done, killing time in the cold because going home without him means being alone.

I’m fifteen years old, and I can’t function without my brother nearby. I wait for him like a dog waiting for its owner to come home, and the worst part is I don’t even care how pathetic it is. Mikhail is the only safe place I have. The only person who doesn’t look at me like I’m defective and who actually protects me instead of talking about me like I’m not there.

Throwing the comic across the room, I watch it hit the wall and fall with a thump onto the floor. Then I walk to the door, pull it open, and step into the hallway.

I don’t know why Mother insists on drowning this house in black—the walls, the curtains, the furniture, everything feels like it’s swallowing me whole, making it hard to breathe.

Yulian walks out of his room toward the bathroom without even glancing my way. He still has that black eye from a few days ago when he stormed off after fighting with Father and came back looking like he’d lost a fight with someone twice his size. The door clicks shut, and I’m standing here, invisible as always.

Slipping into his room, I go straight for his nightstand where he keeps his weed. I’ve watched him roll joints enough times to know exactly where everything is and snag two pre-rolled ones and his lighter, then stuff them in my hoodie pocket. No way he’ll suspect me, he’ll blame one of the others.

I freeze when I spot a black hoodie on his bed with some band logo printed across it. That’s definitely not Yulian’s style, not even close. I pick it up and study it. Way too big for him, wrong music taste, wrong everything. Weird.

Shrugging, I toss it back down.

Back in my room, I crack the window. It’s pitch-black outside, sky scattered with stars that look cold and distant. I climb out carefully, close the window behind me, work my way around to the flat section where I always hide, tucked away where no one thinks to look.

Pulling my hood up, I lean back against the metal roof.

Cold burns through my hoodie and ice crawls up my spine. I light the joint with shaking fingers, take a long drag, and hold it until my lungs burn. I stare up at those distant stars. Everything out here is too quiet, too still, leaves too much space for the thoughts I usually keep buried. I don’t think I’ve ever liked anyone the way I’m supposed to, the way that seems so easy for everyone else.

Am I broken?

I’ve never heard anyone talk the way I think. I searched online, but everything I found just made it more confusing. There were articles about asexuality, demisexuality, about how some people need real emotional connection before they feel attraction. It sounded kind of right, at least gave me words for why I don’t work like everyone else.

I hear my window slide open, and my stomach drops—shit. Maybe Yulian did notice his weed missing after all.

Panicking, I throw the lit joint off the roof and watch it tumble into the darkness.

“Why would you do that?” Mikhail snaps from beside me.

“You scared me, asshole.” I hide my face in my arms, then glance up at him. “Why aren’t you on your date? Home already?”

He climbs out, shuts the window behind him, walks over, and drops down next to me. Close enough that I can feel the warmth coming off him.

“Nah, I wanted to come home. I’d rather hang with you anyway. You are way more fun than some chick.” He pulls another joint from his pocket and grins at me.