When Vinícius first moved to Seoul he felt a lot like a kiskadee in a nest of magpies; he felt small and loud, a stranger among a crowd of majestic big birds and their elegant song. The boy realized then how easy to break he was, just like the bright yellow crayon (his favorite!) he used to use to paint over the little birds his older brother would draw for him.
And he remembered things.
He remembered how Antônio would huff, grumpily sketching on the corners of the pages of his school book only to shut up his energetic little brother who had yet to learn how to color inside the lines. He remembered being called baby bird, his brother fingers gently tickling under his feet and armpits only to hear his high pitched chirps. And he remembered how people would point out the likeness of his chubby baby face to the face of his brother.
He remembered, most of all, how Antônio’s chest pressed against his face and the wet patch of tears he left behind on the older’s white dress shirt were the only things keeping Vinícius grounded on the day his uncle, the only other person who understood him as much as Antônio did, died. He remembered things, so many things. He remembered all of the things he had sworn himself never to forget and the immense love his brother felt for him.
He remembered his brother.
What he didn’t remember was his face.
So the man that greeted Vinícius when he fully regained consciousness was a stranger. The man’s eyes were wet and his nose was small and red, his lips were thin, curled down, pressed tightly together to hold back all the things he really wanted to say, wanted to ask. But nothing really fit together, as if the face staring back at him was a puzzle where too many pieces were missing.
And it’s only when the man calls Vinícius by his name and holds him tight against his chest after a couple of minutes of painful silence, that he realizes the stranger is, in fact, his brother. A brother he couldn’t recognize.
The doctor called it prosopagnosia and Vinicius was made aware that not only wouldn’t he be able to recognize his brother, but he wouldn’t recognize his mother, his family, his friends either. It was then he wished - even if only for a brief moment - he died in the accident, because rather than the side-effects of the four months in a hospital bed, it’s the fear of being alone that pushes him to the edge. The fear of having the people he loves the most walk away from his life, because he and his bruised brain were nothing but a burden to them.
Because the first thing people had to say whenever they approached him was who they were, even the people who were in his life from the very beginning. Because he couldn’t talk, walk or eat on his own for as many months as he was out, and even more. But his brother loved him. So did his mother. So did his grandmother and father and aunt still in Brazil. And so he learned. To speak again, to walk again, to hold on to a fork like his life depended on it. And it did, for every little act of independence was a victory in itself.
When Vinicius woke up from the coma, he wasn’t a kiskadee anymore.
Instead, he was a mourning dove. Still too small in the nest of magpies, but now he was quiet too. His once bright yellows became dull, just like the pale walls of his hospital room, his wings dusted by the grief of losing himself. His favorite crayon had finally broken, and yet he smiled.
He smiled at the way his older brother would ask how he is doing with therapy, and at how he always made sure Vin didn’t knock his face against a pole the younger believed to be much farther. He smiled (albeit bashfully) despite Tom’s tears when his brother found him in a police station after being lost for many hours, for leaving the house on his own.
He smiled at the six year old on his arms, chirping in joy as Vinícius tickled him under his feet and armpits. His brother’s own baby bird, one he heard people claim to look a lot like himself, even if he didn’t remember his own face either. And he smiled at how Antônio huffed and grumpily sketched over a clean sheet of copy paper, only to distract his energetic son and his broken grown brother, who had yet to learn how to color inside the lines.
annaxmalina
turnnoffyourmind
izzy806
2087
germansingergirl
