Antoine Wazlib put a bottle to his mouth and took a long sip of the bitter liquid inside it. He closed his eyes and his mind slipped into the past. He had been about five years old when his two brothers and him had been left on the streets to die and for the last fourteen years, he was trying his best to keep them alive.

But there wasn't much he could do, especially when he hadn't been able to have much of an education. So he did what he was best at, and the one thing that didn’t require much more than a elementary school diploma.

He sang.

Ann sang at beach shacks, restaurants, house parties, weddings and even birthday parties to make sure his younger brothers received better education than him.

To his immense happiness and pride his hard work seemed to paying off. One of them had become a young genius and the other one was not far behind.

Perhaps he could plan an early retirement, he thought as he lifted his feet off of the old sofa and put down his fifth bottle of beer.

Staring at the bottle, another thought occurred to him. Alcohol. The bane of his existence. It was a bane, because he couldn't seem to live without it. It started when he was sixteen and someone at a gig had illegally handed him a bottle. He soon found that he was able to sing and write songs much better when he was drunk. He never spent hard earned money on it, though. Instead, since the last couple of years he received payment in the form of food and alcohol. It was better than the few dollars he would have received anyway.

By now, you must have made a few assumptions about Ann. If you would think a young singer like him would have girls swooning over him, you would be right. But they usually never stayed longer than a night, forcing him to drink even more to drown the heartache.

Ann didn't have a lot of goals in life. Earlier his dreams were to make it big, become a popular singer, find a steady relationship and watch his brothers become successful. The list kept shortening as he kept growing older and now he was hopeful of only one of those dreams. He had stopped thinking about the future.

As of now, his next goal was to get up and make a quick fix of instant noodles for dinner for his brothers when they arrived. He'd have cooked better, but gourmet recipes needed ingredients, which they didn't have enough money to buy. He just hoped his brothers would have managed to get some onions or tomatoes to give the soup some flavour.

He kicked the heating device twice to switch it on. It was a rusty old thing they had found in a corner of the dumps. By the time he smelled the salty smell of the shrimp flavoured powder in the noodles, he started feeling the effects of the alcohol. He put the noodles in a large bowl and covered them with a plate. The makeshift table was covered with the crumbs of the last pieces of bread that they had finished earlier, so he wiped it with a damp cloth.

The effect of the alcohol kept growing stronger as he sat, waiting for his brothers to come home.

His eyelids became heavy and he managed to drag himself to the sofa as darkness began to take over his thoughts.

...

Christopher Wazlib glared at the mirror.  He looked awful.  It was the mirror’s fault, of course, since he couldn't really look that bad.  Smirking, he made a few grimaces to work out his facial muscles, and then he went down the hall.

One of his brothers was passed out on the sofa.  Probably Ann. He was an idiot. Sam was most likely at his job. He was a geek for a living, basically.

Christy hated his life.  Sure, his brothers were cool, and since Sam was such a genius, people usually thought he was smart too.  The girls that flocked around him were nice, but he wasn't really interested. Antoine slept half the time and drank the other, and school was just a chore. The teachers were idiots that didn't like him.

He knew that there had to be something more to life than working at McDonalds for someone such as him.

After all, he was as close to perfect as it was possible to be: a well-rounded, good-looking guy.

...

Christy returned to the house to find a bowl of instant noodles on the table. Ann’s work, most likely. He was actually surprisingly good at cooking, considering how drunk he usually was. Taking a look at Ann to make sure he was sleeping and wouldn't protest, Christy threw some of the onions he had bought into the soup. Yum. Dinner.

He grabbed a chipped plastic bowl out of the cupboard. Its door was missing, but it still held plates and stuff pretty well. In the absence of a ladle, Christy just poured what looked like a third (but was probably more) of the soup into his bowl. He deserved more anyway, considering how hard he worked.  “Ann, I'm home!” he called, and sat down to eat.

Ann was still asleep, though. He probably had too much to drink, as usual.

…

Samantha Wazlib waltzed through the cracked door that led to their hovel. The smell of onion floated into his nose as he breathed deeply. A grimace transfigured his face. He could feel himself starting to get angry. Really angry. The smell of onion was a constant reminder of the poverty they lived in. The food they ate all the time consisted of noodles and onions. He was tired of it. To him, it symbolized their poverty, the squalor that they lived in. It symbolized the pain he felt as he endured the stares and comments because of his obviously poor appearance. It symbolized all the things that he hated about his life. It tore him apart, and stitched him back together incorrectly. It pulled him inside out, and turned him on his head. He had anger management issues, but for the most part, he hid it. Counting to thirteen in his head, he slowly stepped across the threshold.

Inside, the usual sight met his eyes. Ann was sprawled across the lame excuse for a couch, a beer bottle hanging limply from his fingertips. Sam shook his head in disbelief. It was normal behavior for the eldest of the three brothers, but Sam found it difficult to handle every time nonetheless. His anger rose again as he fought to gain control. He felt as if the whole responsibility of their household fell upon his shoulders. His own frail shoulders. He couldn’t support the weight of it, and it crushed him daily. His outbursts of anger were the result of his attempts to push the weight back. But there it was, constantly, eating him alive, and causing him to flare up.

Pushing his glasses up his nose, he looked at his younger brother, Christy. He was supposed to be eating, but just sat there, a spoon dangling in his loose grasp, as he admired the faint reflection of his face in his noodles.

SIghing deeply, Sam yanked a chair out from underneath the table and plopped onto it, arms akimbo. Christy would be Christy, the narcissistic Christy. The one so caught up in himself that he couldn’t appreciate Sam. Christy barely glanced up at him, too absorbed in examining his reflection to say anything. Sam rubbed a hand down his face, knocking his thick square framed glasses askew in the process.

He thought back to his day at work. Being a sales clerk at an electronics store was exhausting. Sam hated dealing with people. He preferred books, or maybe computers, though he hadn’t ever seen one up close. Or even used one. They didn’t make comments, critiquing him. They didn’t stare at him funny, or avoid him like he had the plague. They didn’t pretend to sniff at his worn clothes, and hold their noses. In fact, they didn’t do anything at all. They just sat there. Being. Existing.

Thinking through his life, Sam realized that there wasn’t much else that he didn’t hate. He hated the fact that they were dirt poor. He hated the fact that his brothers were irresponsible gits. It wasn’t like he hated them, but he hated the fact that his paychecks were the ones that mainly supported the family of three. He hated the fact that he, as a seventeen year old, had to have a job, and couldn’t dream of ever going to college. He was supposed to be learning things, putting his brilliant mind to good use, getting a degree so that he could drag himself out of this hell hole. So that he could become rich. So that he could become famous for his intelligence. So that he could win a Nobel prize.

But no. He had responsibilities. Responsibilities that no one else could fill. Responsibilities that he couldn’t shirk. That’s what irked him most of all. He had the responsibilities. He had no hopes of fulfilling his dreams. He ran a hand through his fire engine red hair and slammed his fist on the table, angry at the unfairness of it all. Christy only looked up when he heard the crash, and saw his older brother examining the split skin on his golden-brown knuckles.

Sam heatedly pushed his chair away from the table; it toppled to the floor. Sam needed a way to vent his anger; so, he reached over, grabbing Christy’s soup bowl, and flung it on the wall. He strode away into his shambles of a room, and slung himself on the pile of blankets he called a bed. The world really hated him, and he hated it back. He choked back a quiet sob, a sob that held all the frustration and unhappiness he had suffered throughout his entire life, a sob that would’ve spoke volumes if anyone had been there to hear it.

Christy stood up from the table, outraged. He completely ignored the fact that his elder brother had looked angry and upset. His whole concern was for himself. His perfect reflection had been destroyed!  Well, not quite perfect, since it had been in a pile of noodles, but still. He stormed over to Sam’s room and banged on the door. “Sam, open up!” he shouted.

Sam lifted his head, giving the door a death glare. Poor door, what had it done to deserve Sam’s wrath? His voice was filled with all the bitterness of unfulfilled dreams as he yelled, “No. Go stick your head in the toilet.”

Christy huffed angrily.  “That would mess up my hair, and it took me an hour this morning!” he exclaimed, taking Sam’s suggestion completely seriously.  “Anyway, you nearly broke my bowl!  It's not like we can buy another!”

Steam could literally be seen pouring out from Sam’s ears. Why did Christy always focus on unimportant matters? Why couldn’t he, for once, think about Sam or Ann, or anything other than himself? He struggled to compose himself, and not start breaking every single possession in their dingy hovel. Counting to thirteen, he brought his breathing under control, and replied.

“I don’t care about your stupid bowl,” he growled.

“Well, I care about my bowl. And you broke up my reflection, which is almost worse! It was hard enough trying to see myself through the noodles! Can you imagine if you were trying to look at me and then something like that happened?  You'd be mad, right?” Christy answered, trying to make Sam understand why he was angry.

Sam heard the plea in Christy’s voice, but he wasn’t a person with a heart. Sure, he had one, in the true sense of things, one that beat and pumped blood throughout his body, but the heart that pumped love, now that one was missing. He did care for his brothers, but he just couldn’t bring himself to love anyone. Not in any condition like this. It was all too easy to get his heart broken often. He didn’t think he could manage to have his heart shattered again..)

“Go away, Christopher. Before I break your face.” Sam’s voice was deceptively soft and calm, his tone belying his words. Inside, his face wilted as he reflected that Christy didn’t even ask about why he was upset. Did anyone in his family actually even think of him? Did anyone care? If he killed himself, would anyone even notice?

Nah, Sam laughed bitterly to himself. Of course they would notice, he provided the money, didn’t he? If the regular monthly paltry paycheck stopped coming, Ann and Christy would immediately jump on his case, and berate him. They probably wouldn’t even care that he died. He stopped thinking his dreary thoughts for a second, and listened for a response.

Christy knew Sam well.  His voice, he imagined, was something like what a serpent’s would be.  He knew that if he didn't leave, Sam would probably break his face.  He loved his face.  It was a simple problem, and yet Christy couldn't decide whether to leave or stay and try to help.  Finally, ignoring the multiple warning lights blinking in his head, he decided to linger near the door. Sam was sad and angry. It happened a lot, it was true, but this time Christy felt sort of guilty for being completely oblivious to his brother’s anger when he had arrived. He had provoked Sam, so he had to try and help.

Sam listened for the sound of footsteps, heading away from the door. Hearing none, a small part buried deep within him warmed, just the slightest. Maybe Christy did really care for him. He got to his feet, and trudged to the door. He pulled it open, standing face to face with his little brother, who was slightly shorter. A slight smile, hardly noticeable,  graced his face. Would Christy now ask? Would Sam get to vent his feelings, and receive comfort in return? He stood waiting for Christy to talk.

Christy gulped. Sam was definitely going to break his face. “I'm not really that mad. I just got angry for a second there. Are you alright?” he asked, backpedaling. Hopefully Sam left his room because he wanted to talk and not because he wants to kill me, Christy thought.

“Why should you be mad? It’s just a stupid bowl.”

Sam didn’t hear Christy’s question concerning his well being. They don’t care he thought. Christy didn’t even ask.

All the anger poofed out of him, leaving him deflated like a popped balloon. Sam ran a hand through Christy’s perfect auburn hair, and heaved a soul-wrenching sigh. Why did Christy have to make him angry all the time? Did Christy not see how hard he was trying? He turned and slouched back into the room, closing the door gently.

Christy opened his mouth to say something, anything, to ease the pain he had seen on Sam’s face. There was nothing to say.

Sam called another insult back through the door.

“Go stuff your head in the sewer. You’ll be able to see your reflection much better there.”

Christy replied with a retort through the door. “You’re such a douche, Samantha, you know that, right?”

Christy walked away disgruntled. And his hair was all messed up now, too.

Ann woke up in the middle of the night to find one bowl filled with noodles, untouched, sitting on the table. The other he found lying against the wall, its contents splattered everywhere. Sam's door was closed and Christy's door was open, telling him they had both reached home and went to sleep on an empty stomach. His own stomach growled as he thought of that.

Cold food was better than none, so he sat down at the table to eat, wondering if things were getting better or worse. He thought forward to the years ahead, wondering what the future had in store for him and his brothers. Maybe he’d stop drinking. Maybe Sam would no longer have anger issues. Maybe Christy would start paying more attention to others, not just himself. Maybe, maybe. Who knew what the following years would bring?

A/N: Here's the new and improved version of our first chapter. Please remember to vote and comment if you like it :)