Meant to Be
1
My mother scares me. Not because I don't want to get hurt or anything. She's never hit me.
"Tyler."
She's just…lonely. And she takes it out on me. She has taken it out on me since I was three years old.
"Tyler."
My father was your typical douche bag that leaves his girl because she's pregnant, and he doesn't want the responsibility. So needless to say, instead of moving on, she blamed me.
"TYLER, GODDAMNIT."
"Coming." I stopped packing, set my bag to the side, and went to her room to, hopefully for the last time, finger her and massage her breasts.
"I'm too old and too tired to cook dinner. I want pancakes," she said, her cigarette bouncing along with her lips as she spoke. She kicked off her slippers and watched Jeopardy on cable, kicked back in her suede La-Z-Boy chair.
"Pancakes?" Old and tired my ass. She's thirty two, but she can pass for fifty six.
"Did I stutter?" she asked, not taking her eyes away from the television.
I stood from the couch and put my notebook to the side for the time being to search the kitchen for pancake mix. I got on my knees and opened each of the cabinets for a lumpy bag bearing a photo of perfectly shaped hot cakes under large, red letters that read "Aunt Jemima".
"I can't find 'em," I say, loud enough for her to hear.
"I just bought some! Look harder," she responded, muttering something else under her breath that I couldn't hear.
I was kind of pissed because I'd finally gotten further in my story. I didn't mention it before, but I'm writing one. It's sort of fiction. Sort of memoir. I'm not sure yet. When I meet Mirabelle, I want her to read it and tell me what she thinks. If she likes it, then I'll get it published. If it becomes a bestseller, my mother could read about it and be filled with jealousy and hate. Then she'd go watch a porno and feel herself. And I would be living with Mirabelle in her loft until I get married. We'll be best friends.
"TYLER." I zoned out for a bit, so when I heard her yell my name, I jumped and hit the top of the cabinet.
"Ow! Shit. Yes!?" I heard her sigh and mutter again.
"Look in the top cabinet by the refrigerator. I saw it there," I rubbed my head and opened the top cabinet. Sure enough, it was there next to the cat food. She probably tried to make pancakes one night in a drunken stupor and decided not to, putting it back with the cat nip. Cat nip that should have been thrown away months ago when Cleo died.
"Found it," I said.
"What the hell do you want, a fucking reward? Don't say a word to me until it's finished and on the tv tray in front of me."
Yes, master.
I wasn't wasting any more time. All I could think about while I mixed batter was how I would get out of here with my bags. And how I was gonna do it tonight.
"Tyler."
She's just…lonely. And she takes it out on me. She has taken it out on me since I was three years old.
"Tyler."
My father was your typical douche bag that leaves his girl because she's pregnant, and he doesn't want the responsibility. So needless to say, instead of moving on, she blamed me.
"TYLER, GODDAMNIT."
"Coming." I stopped packing, set my bag to the side, and went to her room to, hopefully for the last time, finger her and massage her breasts.
"I'm too old and too tired to cook dinner. I want pancakes," she said, her cigarette bouncing along with her lips as she spoke. She kicked off her slippers and watched Jeopardy on cable, kicked back in her suede La-Z-Boy chair.
"Pancakes?" Old and tired my ass. She's thirty two, but she can pass for fifty six.
"Did I stutter?" she asked, not taking her eyes away from the television.
I stood from the couch and put my notebook to the side for the time being to search the kitchen for pancake mix. I got on my knees and opened each of the cabinets for a lumpy bag bearing a photo of perfectly shaped hot cakes under large, red letters that read "Aunt Jemima".
"I can't find 'em," I say, loud enough for her to hear.
"I just bought some! Look harder," she responded, muttering something else under her breath that I couldn't hear.
I was kind of pissed because I'd finally gotten further in my story. I didn't mention it before, but I'm writing one. It's sort of fiction. Sort of memoir. I'm not sure yet. When I meet Mirabelle, I want her to read it and tell me what she thinks. If she likes it, then I'll get it published. If it becomes a bestseller, my mother could read about it and be filled with jealousy and hate. Then she'd go watch a porno and feel herself. And I would be living with Mirabelle in her loft until I get married. We'll be best friends.
"TYLER." I zoned out for a bit, so when I heard her yell my name, I jumped and hit the top of the cabinet.
"Ow! Shit. Yes!?" I heard her sigh and mutter again.
"Look in the top cabinet by the refrigerator. I saw it there," I rubbed my head and opened the top cabinet. Sure enough, it was there next to the cat food. She probably tried to make pancakes one night in a drunken stupor and decided not to, putting it back with the cat nip. Cat nip that should have been thrown away months ago when Cleo died.
"Found it," I said.
"What the hell do you want, a fucking reward? Don't say a word to me until it's finished and on the tv tray in front of me."
Yes, master.
I wasn't wasting any more time. All I could think about while I mixed batter was how I would get out of here with my bags. And how I was gonna do it tonight.