Down Low
Poison
“Elizabeth, please stop playing with your food and actually eat something. I know you’re not feeling well, but the food will make you feel better. I promise. ” Robbie was getting on my last nerve. I’m not five. But I don’t think he quite understands that treating me like a child does not make up for lost time. That boat was sailed long past, Daddy-o.
"I don't really think you're in a position to make promises, Robbie," I mumbled not-so-quietly. The adults in the room took it as their cue to silently leave before a fight erupted. Smart. The only one in the room with me was the obnoxious looking guy from before, and he was looking at me with a face that conveyed pity. I glared at him.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" I asked condescendingly. The cheeks that were stuffed with bacon and eggs returned to their regular size as he swallowed. He stared at me for a moment, his jaw clenched. He looked like he had a lot to say, but stayed silent and resumed eating. I was irritated beyond belief, furiously cutting my eggs into halves, quarters, then eighths. The dining room was silent, except for his disgusting chewing and the loud gush of saliva flowing down his throat as he swallowed.
I scoffed, "That's fucking disgusting." He dropped his fork and knife down so suddenly, I jumped a little. He looked up at me and narrowed his eyes.
"You wanna know what's disgusting? The way you treat your father like he is no better than the dirt you walk on. The way you carry yourself with some feigned self-importance and superiority. Granted, you probably treat your friends the same way you treat your family. Or do you even have friends? Did you know that Robbie has talked about you every single day he's been here? No, of course not. Why else would you act like such a bitch? But hey, who am I to judge, right?" I stared at him, as he leaned over the table and came within kissing distance of my face.
"What I want to know, is what could have possibly happened to the sweet girl I knew to make her into such a bitter person." He looked away from me and then stood up, grabbing his plate and disappearing into the kitchen.
I dug my nails into my thighs roughly, making sure not to break the skin. I took in a deep breath before following after him. He was at the kitchen sink cleaning the big pile of dishes and pots stacked over one another. He didn't look up at me, and I didn't expect him to. I was pissed off at what he said, yes. But I couldn't yell at him for telling the truth. I had too much pride to tell him that, so I just put my hair into a messy bun and started cleaning with him. Count it as my apology. I assumed that the majority of our communication was going to involve long silences like these.
I looked up at him and caught him smiling to himself as he scrubbed the leftover oil from a pot. After the dishes were washed and dried, we stared at each other. There was no more anger from before, just resignation and an unvoiced understanding that there was a lot about each other we didn't know. I finally broke the silence and asked, “Who are you?"
He looked a bit hurt and heaved a sigh. "My name is Alex." He looked as if it pained him to look at me any longer, and he didn't. Alex just intently focused on the wall next to him. I felt a little guilty, not remembering who he was. He must have been an old friend, or maybe even a family member that I had forgotten over time. I don't remember much from before my mom and I moved to the U.S. I guess when she went crazy, nothing before that was really worth remembering. I was sorry. I was confused. So I just started asking questions.
"Why are you in my house, Alex? How do you know my dad and why did you cover for me? How do you even know me?” Alex looked up to the ceiling and used his leg to kick himself off the wall.
“You really don’t remember, do you?” I shrugged my shoulders and followed him as he made his way to the living room. He leaned down in front of the lilac colored dresser and pulled out a photo album. He opened it to the first photo. It was of me when I was around six, and a boy with brown hair, hugging each other tightly. There was a caption underneath it, written in what looked like my mother's script. "Best Friends" it said. I took the photo out of the clear film encasing it, and flipped it over. 'Alex and Elizabeth 1998'. I gasped softly and turned, only to find him walking out the front door.
"I don't really think you're in a position to make promises, Robbie," I mumbled not-so-quietly. The adults in the room took it as their cue to silently leave before a fight erupted. Smart. The only one in the room with me was the obnoxious looking guy from before, and he was looking at me with a face that conveyed pity. I glared at him.
"What the fuck are you looking at?" I asked condescendingly. The cheeks that were stuffed with bacon and eggs returned to their regular size as he swallowed. He stared at me for a moment, his jaw clenched. He looked like he had a lot to say, but stayed silent and resumed eating. I was irritated beyond belief, furiously cutting my eggs into halves, quarters, then eighths. The dining room was silent, except for his disgusting chewing and the loud gush of saliva flowing down his throat as he swallowed.
I scoffed, "That's fucking disgusting." He dropped his fork and knife down so suddenly, I jumped a little. He looked up at me and narrowed his eyes.
"You wanna know what's disgusting? The way you treat your father like he is no better than the dirt you walk on. The way you carry yourself with some feigned self-importance and superiority. Granted, you probably treat your friends the same way you treat your family. Or do you even have friends? Did you know that Robbie has talked about you every single day he's been here? No, of course not. Why else would you act like such a bitch? But hey, who am I to judge, right?" I stared at him, as he leaned over the table and came within kissing distance of my face.
"What I want to know, is what could have possibly happened to the sweet girl I knew to make her into such a bitter person." He looked away from me and then stood up, grabbing his plate and disappearing into the kitchen.
I dug my nails into my thighs roughly, making sure not to break the skin. I took in a deep breath before following after him. He was at the kitchen sink cleaning the big pile of dishes and pots stacked over one another. He didn't look up at me, and I didn't expect him to. I was pissed off at what he said, yes. But I couldn't yell at him for telling the truth. I had too much pride to tell him that, so I just put my hair into a messy bun and started cleaning with him. Count it as my apology. I assumed that the majority of our communication was going to involve long silences like these.
I looked up at him and caught him smiling to himself as he scrubbed the leftover oil from a pot. After the dishes were washed and dried, we stared at each other. There was no more anger from before, just resignation and an unvoiced understanding that there was a lot about each other we didn't know. I finally broke the silence and asked, “Who are you?"
He looked a bit hurt and heaved a sigh. "My name is Alex." He looked as if it pained him to look at me any longer, and he didn't. Alex just intently focused on the wall next to him. I felt a little guilty, not remembering who he was. He must have been an old friend, or maybe even a family member that I had forgotten over time. I don't remember much from before my mom and I moved to the U.S. I guess when she went crazy, nothing before that was really worth remembering. I was sorry. I was confused. So I just started asking questions.
"Why are you in my house, Alex? How do you know my dad and why did you cover for me? How do you even know me?” Alex looked up to the ceiling and used his leg to kick himself off the wall.
“You really don’t remember, do you?” I shrugged my shoulders and followed him as he made his way to the living room. He leaned down in front of the lilac colored dresser and pulled out a photo album. He opened it to the first photo. It was of me when I was around six, and a boy with brown hair, hugging each other tightly. There was a caption underneath it, written in what looked like my mother's script. "Best Friends" it said. I took the photo out of the clear film encasing it, and flipped it over. 'Alex and Elizabeth 1998'. I gasped softly and turned, only to find him walking out the front door.
♠ ♠ ♠
Jajaja. It'll get good, I promise. I just need the set up.