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I Dare You
Angela Chau
9
My older brother was a fairly typical one. He always bragged that he
was better than me. From being better at Maths and Science, to who
was capable of holding their breath for the longest, his self-pride
enshrouded him wherever he went. He believed he was the perfect
man. Shaggy light brown hair, blue eyes; he even claimed that a girl
had once kissed him on the cheek when he was eight. Sadly, I could
never figure out if he ever recounted a mendacious story.
He stood at around one and a half metres tall. I had once asked
him if I was better for being the shortest. He frankly said, ‘No, that’s
not right. It’s a privilege to be the tallest, the biggest, or the strongest.
Dictating your shortness is like saying that you’re the weakest, the
wimpiest, and the worst.’ That hit me hard, that one solitary
comment. It was worse than an adult’s gush of wrath and vitriol,
because it was frommy brother, one of the people I believed to truly
love me.
I often asked him if I could have a turn at being the best. He
reluctantly agreed, but on the condition that I had to surpass his
own achievements. It was invariably the same: ‘Climb the pole and
touch the top, I dare you.’ I couldn’t lay a foot on it. ‘Swim non-stop
to the edge of the lake and back without drowning, I dare you.’ I
swam halfway, found myself fighting for breath, and unwillingly
turned back. ‘Run to the end of the road to the yellow brick house
and back, in under two minutes, I dare you.’ It seemed too simple:
down the road, to the end, across the road, yellow brick house, return.
In only two minutes. I sprinted swiftly, hastily swerving around the
cars with caution. I touched the house and returned. I demanded
the time. ‘Two minutes and six seconds, just a few seconds shy of the
limit.’ Devastated, I sulked, internally screaming at myself. Bright,
bold words, were flashing in my brain, digging into my heart: I was a
failure.
I stood regretful, mad, ashamed of myself. ‘Two minutes and six
seconds, just a few seconds shy.’ It constantly replayed in my head,
bringing back memories of the other nightmare. ‘You are the
weakest, the wimpiest, and the worst.’ My brother was gazing at the
stopwatch, with a smug grin crawling onto his face. He didn’t seem
to be showing much sympathy. It disgusted me that he was standing
with the sense of pride and the achievement of beating me once
again. I was so close, which made my defeat even more miserable.
Slowly, the anger inside me soon turned into ambition. I yearned to