Eat My Heart Out

I yell a last goodbye to Ray, before he pulls out onto the busy road again and drives off. I start my short walk down my street.

I let the tiny bit of sun that’s shining through the dark clouds warm my face as I breathe in the sweet scent of early freedom.

It’s so quiet.

I almost don’t wanna go home. My next exam is an entire week away, so I could easily take a day off and do nothing. I could go to the park or something, but I’ve never been very outdoorsy.

I reach my house and stick the key in the bottom lock, only to find it unlocked already. I frown briefly, then open the top lock and push the door open.

“Hello?” my dad’s voice resonates from the living room.

“Hi!” I yell back and drop my things on the floor before I kick off my shoes. I poke my head into the living room, wave and then pick up my backpack to go down to my room.

“Gerard?” I freeze, sigh silently and turn around. Just when I thought I would have a nice hour and a half home alone, my dad’s home. And just when I thought I could make a quick escape, he gets curious.

I step into the living room, my backpack hanging by my side.

“What’re you doing home?” he asks, his voice filled with dominance. I don’t even look at his eyes – knowing they’re judging and disbelieving – and instead try to read the news off the front page of the newspaper in his hands.

“My teacher got sick, so the principle let us go home to study,” I answer indifferently.

Yet another kind of food can supposedly give me cancer and kill me. Big news.

I look up at my dad’s eyes, finding them more interesting than the paper.

He nods at me.

I’m about to turn around when;

“I expect you to do well on your exams,” he says. I give him a slightly questioning look.
“Your mom and I talked, and even though you’re not going to college, you are gonna get good grades. Just in case you gonna need them later,” he explains, a cocky tone in his voice. My questioning look disappears and is replaced by a paralyzed face – it’s the only face I can make to keep myself from rolling my eyes, baring my teeth and frowning deeply.

“Of course,” I say, putting fake enthusiasm in my voice. Not even a naïve 5-year-old would consider my enthusiasm realistic.

“Don’t use that tone of voice,” my dad says calmly and goes back to reading his paper.

“Sorry,” I mumble, before I turn around. As I leave the room, the guilt chases after me. With each step I take, it comes closer and when I’m out in the hallway on my way towards the basement stairs, the guilt has latched onto my back – its claws digging in deep.

Thanks dad. Thank you so much.