Bitter Pill

We’ve been walking for about 15 minutes. So far the only thing we’ve conversed about is the social dramas and happenings at the lake. I bash the idiots who cry over their cheating boyfriends, he laughs.

So much fun, right?

“So Taryn, tell me about yourself.” He says after an awkward silence.

I can only imagine the sight of us two right now. Nash is the type of guy you’d expect to see hanging out with guys like himself who smoke, drink every day, love loud music, and probably have sex in the middle of it all as well.
Bad ass, I suppose.

But me? I’m a loner. I love the Doc Martens I wear shamelessly every day, I only smoked when my mother goes into one of her personality splits and I can’t cope (don’t enjoy it too much then either), I suppose rock music is rather amusing, and I’ve never had a boyfriend. Let alone had sex before.

“Just good enough.” That’s what describes me.

“Well Nash, how about you tell me about yourself instead?” I sneer.

“I don’t like that idea so much.” He responds quickly, still talking in a low, rough voice.

“Well then don’t come asking about me if you can’t put up with yourself.” I tease, stepping over a giant puddle on the street curb.

“…Alright, fair enough Taryn.” Nash shrugs, sliding his hands into his pants pockets, “I’m 17 years old, I quit goin’ to school when I was 15 and I live with my dad.”
I stop and look at him with narrowed eyes. “Huh?” he smiles nervously. I stare Nash from head to toe like I did when he first approached me.

He’s wearing a not-so-heavy black hoodie that’s unzipped with a white t-shirt underneath, green army fatigue pants, and grungy black Doc Martens like myself.

“I like your pants.” I scrunch up my face and nod at him.

“I like your shoes.” He flashes another smile, and then begins walking again. I catch on to him and cross my arms in the process.

“We’re wearing the same shoes!” I flail my arms in front of him.

“I know.” Nash begins to laugh quietly. I stare at his face bewildered for a moment, still walking.

“So…You gonna tell me who you are or do I have to pull teeth?” he continues, giving me a side glance.

“…Fine…I’m 14, I live with my mom and…I guess I like the rain.” I murmur and stop walking. I’ve never been so surprised at how simple a person I sound to be. I’m also slightly embarrassed by the stupid response I submit.

“There ya go kid. What’s the matter?” he stops and looks at me, almost concerned.

“Nothin’. I’m just kind of upset that I couldn’t think of anything to say. Y’know?” I look up at him.

Nash nods his head and puts a hand on my shoulder once again. “I know what you mean kid. You really wanted to give me an interesting answer because you really do wanna talk to me.”

“No, it’s nothing like that at all! You’re wrong!” I reply sharply.

“Am I?” Nash raises an eyebrow.

“Yeah, you are.” I smile in amusement.

“Well then Taryn, tell me: correct me if I’m wrong again, but don’t you live here?” he looks up at the building behind me: my apartment.

It’s kind of ratty, a few bugs crawling around here and there, but at least we had our hot water on again. That and the water bill in general are what really mattered around my house. Light was a necessity, according to my parents.
But then again, I suppose we are pretty nocturnal people.

“How do you know that?” I demand, accidentally widening my eyes.

“What if I stay I live nearby?” Nash smirks.

“I suppose it’s none of my business where you live, so that’s fine…Thank you.” I sigh, heading up my stoop.

“No problem. So I’ll see you at the lake tomorrow?” he calls as I open the front door.

“Um, sure!” I turn around, throwing a half-smile his way.

“Good.” He nods. I turn away and head into the place I call “home”.

Before heading up 5 flights of stairs (damn elevators out of order), I turn around one more time.
He’s gone.

I subconsciously sigh to myself and head on walking.

The first thing I do when I pick the lock to my front door (damn mother only got one key,) is glance at the microwave clock which is to my left. The kitchen and the living room are on opposite sides.
It’s 6:13.

“Ms. Hatcher!!” I yell, making my way through our mess of a living room. Dirty panties here, cigarette butts there. An occasional chip bag too.

“I’m comin’ kid…Ms. Hatcher? Geez, I felt better off being called Stacey.” My mother says in her professional voice, power-walking out of her bedroom to the right. She’s got on her fabulous work attire: strict black and gray pantsuit with 2 inch heels to match, shiny brown hair pulled back in a fierce bun, her high-yellow skin magnified because of the gray eye shadow she’s got on along with sleek black eyeliner and tomato red lipstick.

“Whatever.” I sigh, crashing on our couch. I knew damn well that my mother brought in more money than a secretary for a chiropractor should.

She’d been sleeping with her boss, sometimes. I could usually tell which days she did because she’d come home with her hair let down and 3 bottles of whiskey, 1 of which was already half-empty.
Typical mommy behavior for her.

“How’s Bella?” my mom asks as she puts in 2 huge gold hoop earrings.

“Perfect as usual.” I grumble. My mom had always adored Bella. Ever since I’d met her back in 3rd grade.
Just because I’d known Bella for 6 years (the longest I’ve had any friend), my mom expected us to be best friends. Sure, Bella was a decent human being, but we just didn’t mesh as good as I thought we once did.

Of course it all fell apart during middle school. That’s when all the bullshit starts.
But I occasionally did go over to Bella’s as an excuse not to look my mother in the face. But studying is fine too.

“Oh, don’t be such a smart-ass Taryn.” My mom rolls her eyes, pulling her compact mirror out of her pocket. I just roll my eyes and continue watching her. “Maybe if you didn’t dress like such an outcast, you would get more dates. And friends.” Mother smiles at herself, “Take a note from your mama kiddo.”
I laugh silently to myself and roll my eyes once again.

My mother once told me in a drunken fit that she wished I could be more like Bella. And that if she were Bella’s mom, she probably wouldn’t even drink as much as she did.

I was 12 when she said that.

“Yeah…Right Mom.” I bite down on my bottom lip.

“Well it’s been fun baby, but I’ve gotta run. Stay outta trouble or I’ll start having Mr. Edward babysit you again.” She teases, then heads for the front door.

Once she’s out, I head for my room and cut on my stereo. The first song that appears is “The Wrist” by Mushroomhead.
Feeling a ray of happiness, I hit play and turn the volume up to 164. (It can go up to 200.)
Then heading for the kitchen, I dig into the fridge for a container of leftover spaghetti.
Once heating it up for 3 minutes and grabbing a fork out of the dish drainer, I stick the fork into the Tupperware dish; grab a half-full 40 ounce of Budweiser and head for my room and close the door behind me.