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Literary lobotomy

Being Kacper

My father spoke the only truth that I have ever heard in my life. It was a rainy day. My mother was crying. I asked her why. She said because the weather was making her cry. I asked my dad why was the weather making her cry. He said we were all born liars.

That got me thinking. See, I always thought I was born an honest guy. More importantly, I thought I was born as Kacper, as if somehow my name was etched on my forehead with invisible ink only my parents could read.

But turns out I was wrong. In fact as I age, I’m finding out I was wrong about a lot of things. That, or I’m just lying about a lot of things. If there’s a difference between the two, I don’t know it.

So maybe what my dad was telling me was that I was switched up at birth with Oskar, my twin brother, and as a result, I was not Kacper, but Oskar. That was probably why my mom was crying. Calling someone by the wrong name is a burden too much for some. I don’t mind it. I should’ve told my mom. “Don’t cry, mother. Being Kacper has its perks.”

The first was that I could always be remembered. Teachers, friends, and enemies alike compared my name to the infamous, undead Casper. They pondered, “Are you friendly?” suggesting that I was a ghost if nothing else.

Boy, each time a witty bastard said it, you bet your ass that I laughed like it was the first time I heard the joke. Pretending to laugh is a great feeling. Almost as good as the real thing. I always just shook my head like a shy-school-girl would when being asked about liking a boy or not. I even blushed.

Sometimes, though, when people glare at me with their beady eyes as if I were a window, I feel like a ghost.

And yet, there was something great about being Kacper, if you’d believe it. I was unique. No one had such a wonderful name. Kacper. No matter how you said it, even in its harshest undertone, there was a sweet ring to it. Kac-scar, Kap-er, and so the rumblings of the tongue roll on like a sonnet to my ears. Even Kil-pear, once spoken by drunken bards, sounds like fruity murder and I mean, who doesn’t like to be fruity from time to time?

On top of that, Kacper had a scar. His entire identity was built up on that scar. So the story goes: if you put an N in front of Oskar, it spells No-skar. Without the scar, well, I would just look like Oskar, and trust me, that wasn’t a good thing. Sharing a few genes is enough. Most of his jeans didn’t even match my figure anyways.

The scar provided a mysterious air to me. Some thought I was a badass kick-you-in-your-face-if-you-mess-with-him kinda’ guy. Others believed I was just a poor misunderstood soul who had ended up on the wrong street at the wrong time.

In between a person’s best guess and wildest fantasy, I found myself, whatever that means. I was Kacper. Liar or not, despite what my father had said. No one else ever could be me, except of course, my twin.

Oh brother.

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About kacperniburski

I am searching for something in between the letters.

Discussion

2 thoughts on “Being Kacper

  1. so 100yrs of solitude.
    hmm.

    Posted by There is a Squirrel in the Backyard | July 21, 2011, 9:13 am
    • I read that book oh so long ago. If my twin and I are anything like Jose Arcadio Segundo and Aureliano Segundo, I’d be happy. Oh, and if I was able to do “so 100yrs of solitude” in 555 words, I’m also happy.

      Posted by kacperniburski | July 21, 2011, 11:15 am

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