And I'm the Perfect Good Girl

The sound of the smoking tires squealing and skidding dangerously over the black tar was loud. The sad whine of the engine taking its last few sputtering breaths was loud. Very loud. But not as loud as Josiah’s screams. No, never as loud as Josiah screams. Josiah wasn’t screaming because his neck was aching painfully from the airbag slamming harshly against his face. Or because his left leg was bent at a particularly awkward angle. Or even because both of his arms felt like something was a bit off about them. No, Josiah was screaming because that was all that was left for him to do.



There was a time when Josiah was happy. Oh, yes. Back then, his family’s small, bland apartment was constantly filled with the smell of cheap black coffee and microwaved hash browns and delectable TV dinners. And on Sunday mornings it was the semi-satisfying aroma of boxed pancakes and Miracle Whip. Every weekday afternoon Josiah would tromp back home confidently from school and take the stairs to his family's apartment because the elevator had broken down years before and no one had bothered to patch it back up. The stove would always have something simmering quietly--unattended--on top of it or the microwave would be beeping loudly when he walked through the door. His father would smile and call out to him from the pea green arm chair with the broken bottom and they'd read a line from the Sports section of the newspaper that he brought back home from work together. Beside him, his half-melted iced tea would be completely full, even though Josiah knew his father made the tea ages ago.

Josiah was happy. Only because this simple, humble, quiet life was all he knew. He never really cared to pay attention to the other kids in his class who nonchalantly chatted about their new computer or new bike or new game or new whatever it was their parents wasted precious money on. He was content with a one foot faux Christmas tree and a childish plush doll for Christmas or chicken and mashed potatoes from a plastic box bought from the nearby Wal-Mart for Thanksgiving. Josiah was content, and that was enough for him.

Then came a time when Josiah wasn't content anymore. Soon the apartment began to smell of smashed, forgotten cigarettes and booze from another night that had seeped into the matted carpet. When he got back home from school, the lofty smell of a simmering pot was no more and the kitchen seemed devoid of sound. There was only the television on full blast in front of an empty chair and tendrils of smoke trailing up from recently mashed cigerettes on the table beside it. There was no smiling father who was always eager to have just a second with him and no half-melted iced tea and no newspaper for him to scour hungrily through after his father had finished with it. Only an old, fat slob not fit to even be called a human with his hung-over head buried into the pillow in his parent’s bedreoom. His father’s bedroom.

Ron. Now, Ron was something. He had a never-ending supply of cheesy smiles and sweet words that Josiah knew just couldn't be true. Words that Josiah never believed for a second. But Ron didn't care a bug's eye for Josiah; only Josiah's mother. He would come uninvited and invade Josiah’s home, Josiah’s safe place, Josiah’s place of grief every night. The air would be contaminated with his cigarette smoke and he'd selfishly recline sluggishly in Josiah's father’s chair, all the while spouting pick-ups that he probably grabbed off cheap Valentine’s Day cards to Josiah’s mother. Josiah couldn’t believe how his mother could have ever believed anything Ron said. Ron was certainly not the most appealing man in the world. No. He was the most unappealing man Josiah had ever laid eyes on. But maybe his mother was desperate. Maybe his mother was a bit spooked in the head. Maybe his mother just couldn’t take it anymore and thought this would be the best way to get over it. So Ron and his mother had an amazingly romantic Las Vegas style wedding. After that, Ron became Ron.

The real Ron.

Then, Josiah changed. Josiah blossomed into an ugly thing. He unraveled so very slowly. No matter how much he tried to keep things together and accept what life had given him, Josiah just couldn’t take it anymore. He couldn't stay strong like his father told him to. His whole being fell around him. Every picture of him and his father had been taken down from the walls in his mother's own attempt to forget. Every memory, every token, everything about his father had been removed completely from his life. Josiah’s father was his whole being. And now, Josiah was obsolete. Silently, the anger and hate he had kept so hidden deep, deep down rushed to the surface, banging loudly against the crevices of his mind. He was so shaken, yet surging with power and relishing the feeling of being able to set everything the way it should be.

Ron had woken up, his eyes crazily bloodshot and a trail of saliva hardened against his cheek from the rough night. “Boy,” he called. That’s what Ron called Josiah. And he hated it. So Josiah reacted according to instinct, letting himself do everything he had stopped himself from doing before.

Too many things happened. Too many gruesome scenes. Josiah succesfully erased every memory of that night. He erased his mother’s horrified face. He erased Ron’s red chest and his missing digits. He erased everything that hurt him. He ran. That’s all he could remember. He ran and ran and ran and ended up here. With us.

The most perfect family in the world.