While the rest of the world adored her—teachers, relatives, neighbors—Rex knew the truth behind that angelic façade. She was a demon in disguise. The original Rex’s life had practically been shaped under her iron rule.
She didn’t torment him with physical pranks—no, Lena operated on a higher plane. Psychological warfare was her weapon of choice. She "trained" him under the banner of self-improvement.
She micromanaged his wardrobe ("You can’t seriously be wearing that, can you?"), his eating habits ("Finish your greens or I’ll deduct ten brain cells from your future career."), and even his leisure time ("Video games? Pathetic. Come, we’re solving logic puzzles.").
She even installed herself as the gatekeeper of his social life. She would interrogate every classmate he brought home like an overprotective mafia boss. The few girls who showed even mild interest in Rex? Gone within the week—ghosted, intimidated, or "accidentally" embarrassed in public.
Every friend, especially female ones, had to pass her approval—and none ever did. One sympathetic girl in middle school tried to ask him out. Lena "coincidentally" showed up and outed his embarrassing childhood nickname in front of the entire cafeteria.
Rex hadn’t talked to a girl for six months after that.
Needless to say, puberty for Rex was less about discovering himself and more about avoiding emotional landmines.
She was also the reason the original Rex never had a rebellious phase. While other kids were sneaking out, getting crushes, and having awkward first relationships, Rex couldn’t even make eye contact with a girl without hearing Lena’s voice echo in his skull: "Eyes up, loser. Focus on your GPA, not your hormones."
He couldn’t even talk to girls without instinctively glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting Lena to materialize from thin air like a vengeful spirit.
It was like he had a personal demonic guard dog disguised as an older sister.
A beautiful, brilliant, terrifyingly overprotective guard dog—who sniffed out "suspicious female energy" like a bloodhound and wasn’t afraid to bite.
Flirting? Out of the question.
Even small talk was a gamble.
Most girls avoided him like he carried some sort of "Lena contamination."
Because she was always there.
Lurking. Watching. Judging.
And if any brave soul so much as tried to ask for his notes after class, Lena would appear behind them like a boss battle cutscene—arms folded, eyes narrowed, ready to "evaluate their intentions" with the intensity of a security clearance check.
The message was clear:
"You touch my little brother, and I will end you."
It wasn’t just awkward—it was social suicide.
The idea of having a girlfriend?
Please. That was fantasy-level stuff.
Even daydreaming about it felt dangerous. Like she could read minds, too.
Only in high school—after years of psychological warfare—did he finally manage to get a girlfriend.
And even that happened because he’d hit his breaking point and complained to his parents.
Begged them, actually.
"I’m a grown man now!" he had said, voice cracking slightly.
"I deserve the basic human right to text a girl without being cross-examined!"
After a long family talk (that felt more like a peace treaty negotiation), his parents finally convinced Lena to back off—at least a little.
She’d reluctantly agreed, muttering something about "limited parole under strict surveillance."
It lasted a few months. Just enough to taste freedom.
But of course, Lena was still Lena.
She "accidentally" ran into them twice during their dates, "casually" checked his texts when visiting, and gave the poor girl that patented smile—the one that said run now, or suffer.
Eventually, the pressure got to her.
The relationship fizzled.
Well, he realized that sometimes, having no girlfriend was less stressful than having one who had to live in fear of your sister.
In a way, Lena was both his greatest trauma... and the reason he never had teenage heartbreak.
Small mercies, he supposed.
So, to his classmates, she was this elegant, sharp-tongued prodigy. To adults, she was a role model. But to Rex?
She was a tyrant in heels. A dictator with flashcards. A beautiful devil with a clipboard and a ten-year life plan that, somehow, included him as her unpaid intern.
By the time Lena finally left for university, Rex was a hollowed-out husk of a boy who flinched at the sound of high heels.
The once proud, slightly lazy, mildly mischievous child had been molded—no, broken—into submission.
All it took was eighteen years under her tyrannical rule.
She had installed herself as the judge, jury, and executioner of his daily existence.
If he messed up? She was there.
If he slacked off? She knew.
If he even thought about skipping homework? Boom—she appeared like a demon summoned by lazy thoughts.
Rex still swore she could smell procrastination.
Of course, with memories like that, it was hard not to think of her as anything short of a devil in designer glasses.
And of course, it wasn’t all bad. Sure, most of his memories involved emotional scars, passive-aggressive threats, and the occasional psychological warfare... but somewhere, buried deep beneath all that trauma, there were some good memories.
’Huh? Where are they?’
He squinted. Focused and dug deep.
Nope. Nothing. Just more traumatic flashbacks and the faint sound of Lena yelling, "You call that a clean room?"
"Are you seriously wearing that outside? Do you have no self-respect?"
The voice echoed in his skull like a cursed chant.
Ahem. Let’s try this again.
Past the psychological rubble and layers of emotional damage... he finally found them.
A few glowing fragments.
Little gems of warmth, tucked between the chaos. The source of this content ɪs novel·fiɾe·net
The kind that made his chest ache in a confusing, nostalgic way.
He remembered how, whenever their parents were running late, Lena would always stay by his side.
Even when she was buried in textbooks and equations far beyond his comprehension, she’d make a small space next to her, hand him one of her old notebooks, and let him scribble away nonsense just so he wouldn’t feel lonely.
They used to watch cartoons together sprawled out on the living room floor...her flipping through a science workbook in hand, him clutching a juice box like it was treasure.
And sometimes, just sometimes, she’d let him watch those "PG-13 and up" movies,as long as he swore (very seriously) not to repeat any of the swear words.
Then there were the summers.