Words, Words, Words

I need a drink.

I need a goddamn bloody drink, because as I sit in the living room of SJ’s flat, her parents burning holes into my skin as they stare at me in disgust, I feel like shit. I feel like shit for many reasons, actually.

I feel like shit for, one, hurting Amelia again this morning after I lectured myself endlessly last night about stopping it. I don’t even know what came over me. I stared at her, a disheveled mess with pleading eyes, begging for my help and just sneered. I scoffed in her face and walked away. I just couldn’t bring myself to be a gentleman and offer her a hand.

I also feel like shit, two, because I’m sitting in next to SJ, listening to her rant to her parents about what a ‘great guy I am and how they should give me a chance before judging me.’ Her kind words make me feel like a bigger wanker after what happened at home, just a mere three hours before this.

“Olleh’s a good boyfriend. He treats me righ’ and is completely harmless,” She says, putting her hand on mine. I glance at her, slouching awkwardly in my seat then look at her parents and fake a smile.

Every word she says is a lie.

I’m not her boyfriend; we’re what many people would classify as ‘fuck buddies.’ The only reason she’s forcing me to meet her parents is so they get used to seeing my face around the house. And even if I was her boyfriend, I wouldn’t treat her anywhere near the word ‘good.’ I’d never take her out on dates, open doors for her or buy her flowers. I’d probably take her to clubs, show up late to everything we’d have planned and have her buy me booze.

And to say I’m completely harmless? Complete bullshit. I’m simply killing a girl who doesn’t deserve any sort of shit from me. If that’s harmless, I don’t want to know what brutal would be.

Suddenly, SJ nudges my shoulder and says through her gritted, over-bleached white teeth, “Righ’, Olleh?”

I look towards her parents, forcing another smile and nodding to whatever the fuck she had said. I can only imagine. It’s probably some more bullshit, along the lines of, “And he believes in stayin’ pure until he’s married!”

A long, awkward silence fills the room as SJ and her parents stare at me. I feel pressured to say something witty, intelligent and gentlemanly; something to make up for my lack of conversation for the past forty-five minutes. Instead, I feel my lips forming the sour words and I can’t stop myself from slapping my hands on my thighs, sitting up right and saying with an unpleasant smile, “I bet I’m not the only one who needs a drink righ’ abou’ now.”

______________________________

I’m almost relieved as I walk into the house, taking in the comforting walls and decorations. My headache seems to calm as I make my way through the fancy dining room and towards the kitchen. But just when I think my day is taking a turn for the better, my hopes get shot down.

Tom sits on the couch in the living room next to the kitchen, barely paying attention to the television or his laptop. Instead, he stares at me as I put my keys on the counter and take off my hoodie. My hazel eyes meet his blue ones, but neither of us backs down.

So for five minutes straight, I have a stare down with my younger brother, leaning against the kitchen counter, as The Real World plays in the background.

As I stare at him, I take in his features. His cheeks are pink, his eyes are tired, his hair is messy and his clothes are wrinkled. Not to mention, his shirt has a crusty stain on it. I cringe when I see it and break the silence, saying, “Gross, Tom, change yeh shirt.”

Tom glances down at his shirt, taking in the stain in all its glory and scoffs, looking back at me. A mischievous smile creeps over his lips as he points to the stain and replies, “This? This is yeh shirt, Olleh.”

I stare at the shirt for a long moment, taking in the black material and the graphics on it, before noticing that it’s one of my favorite shirts from when I was in high school. My jaw drops and I yell, “Wha’ the fuck, Tom? It’s bad enough yeh take my clothes without askin’, but now yeh staining them?”

“Don’ worry, big brotha,” Tom says, nonchalantly, taking off the shirt to reveal a wife beater. He throws it to me and I catch it, looking at it’s condition, “It’ll come out. It’s only puke.”

The shirt falls from my hands, “Wha?!”

Tom stands up, carefully setting down his laptop on the coffee table and turns off the television. He looks at me with sickened eyes, his thin lips curling into a sneer, as he says, “Yeah, actually, to be specific, it’s Amelia’s puke. She up-chucked all over the bathroom after yeh decided teh be the usual arse yeh are and I cleaned it up.”

My mouth closes, my eyes lower and my hands fall to the counter. I stare at my tattoos, feeling lower than before. My head is pounding, my heart is aching, my stomach is hurting. Guilt washes over me, leaving my conscience to get the best of me.

Tom and I stand in silence until small footsteps enter the room. I look up to see Amelia. Her dark hair is wavy and she’s dressed in one of Tom’s boxers and one of my shirts. She squeakily yawns, covering her mouth and mumbling tiredly, “Excuse me.”

Her sleepy eyes meet mine as she stares at me, becoming alert in a matter of seconds. A million emotions run through those eyes before she finally settles on being sad and looks away. I press my lips together and glance back down at my hands.

“Lia, why are you up? Yeh need yeh rest,” Tom says softly, walking over to her and embracing her small figure. His arms wrap around waist as he leans down a little to rest his chin on the top of her head.

“I want to go home,” She says, the words muffled as she digs her face into Tom’s shoulder for comfort. Her own arms wrap around his torso as she leans into him.

“I don’ ‘ave the car today, love, and yeh in no condition teh drive,” Tom explains, rubbing her back gently. He rocks her slowly from side to side, kissing the top of her head with a small frown.

“But I want to go home, Tom. Please, just let me go home,” She whimpers. I can tell she’s on the verge of tears, desperately wanting to be away from me. I bite my bottom lip as Tom mutters a comforting apology and a promise that she’ll go home tonight when mum brings back the car.

“I can take her.”

These words are genuine. I meant to say them; I meant the offer in the nicest way. Tom looks at me, standing up straight and lifting his head from Amelia’s. He raises an eyebrow as she peeks at me from the corner of her eye.

“Are yeh sure?” Tom asks slowly, tightening his grip on the tiny girl. She hides her face in Tom’s chest and I feel even more awkward being in the same room as them. Tom has such strong feelings for Amelia’s well-being and she feels comfortable being in his protective arms. The sad thing, on my part, is his protective arms are shielding her from me.

“Yeah, I don’ mind,” I say softly, staring at Amelia’s dark hair with bright eyes. A little frown plays on my lips as Tom whispers to Amelia. They have a silent conversation that I can’t make out before Amelia pulls away from Tom’s grasp.

Her small voice mumbles, “Let me just get my stuff,” before she turns around and goes upstairs. I look at Tom who stares at me for a long minute. I press my lips together and wait for those harsh words.

“Don’ yeh dare fuck this up, Oliver.”

There they are.