They Laugh At Tragedies

My therapist is a bitch. She sits there in her ugly, garish chair, thinking she has the right to pass judgment on every insignificant little thing that passes her way. Well, I’ve got news for you, Mrs. Twenty-Five-Year-Old-Wannabe; screw you! None of your patients like you! In fact, I’m pretty sure most of them want to hack out all of your innards and feed them to you.

I stare at Mrs. Simmons’ thick blonde hair and her poufy red lips, scowling slightly when she speaks. “So. Miss Hannagan. I’ve been informed you have new neighbors; apparently the children are around your age. Have you finally made new friends?” she asks unabashedly.

“Not really,” is my curt reply. She’s obviously not satisfied with my answer. Good.

“You’re in the eleventh grade. You can at least try,” she says, smiling a very fake smile

I bash her profusely in my head.

“You don’t want to regret your last years of high school, do you?” she continues, a phony caring tone coloring her words.

The bashing in my head escalates to physical bashing. In my head, I tear off all of her limbs. In my head, I cut open her stomach. In my head, I take out all of her entrails and feed them to her. I stick thorns into her eyes.

I feel considerably better.

I am a dreadful person.

Maybe I am crazy.

I smirk at Mrs. Simmons. She is speaking, but no words come out of her mouth. I have blocked her out completely.

* * *

I have a part time job as a waitress at this generic diner. I hate it. Most of the customers are idiots. Scratch that; all of the customers are idiots. But there’s a specific customer who I really, really despise.

I spot her sitting at a table and sigh, walking up to her, since the other waiters and waitresses are busy with their own tables.

She looks up from her menu, sees me, and sneers slightly. Still looking as dorky as always.

Her light brown hair is parted into two braids—seriously, what teenager does that? Her thick-framed glasses are perched on the bridge of her nose, and she’s wearing a Justin Bieber t-shirt.

I take a moment to contemplate this; since when did they start selling Justin Bieber t-shirts? Since when was he taken seriously enough to have his own t-shirts? But really, now. What do I know?

I stop at her table and say mechanically, “Hello, Cynthia. May I take your order?”

“Hey, Alexa,” she replies, emphasizing my name scornfully.

Screw her.

“When the hell are you guys going to update your freaking menu?” she continues, sniggering a bit.

“No idea,” I reply unemotionally.

“You know, waitresses are supposed to be friendly and hospitable. I think you should be fired. You’re too…apathetic,” she informs me, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“Oh, wow, Cynthia. You’ve deeply enlightened me, really. Did Justin Bieber teach you how to talk so wisely?” I drawl, looking at her mockingly.

“That’s it, you should totally be fired. Honestly, I mean, I know your mom died when you were a kid and all, but you don’t have to take it out on everyone else,” she says, tossing one of her braids behind her shoulder.

She needs to shut up. Right now. That has got to be one of the dumbest things I’ve ever heard her say; and that’s saying something

“Really. You’re even worse than your drunken dad. Don’t think I don’t know about all those funerals you go to purely for fun. You’re sick,” she goes on.

“Screw you,” I say quietly.

Cynthia’s eyes widen and she grins broadly, pointing behind me discreetly.

I turn around and come face to face with the diner’s manager. Shit. He gives me a threatening glare and asks me to follow him to his office.

I shut the door to the office quietly before the manager speaks. He starts to spout a bunch of shit about how rude and snarky I’ve been with the customers—even if it’s really only one specific customer I’m blatantly rude to—and how he’s given me a bunch of chances and this is my last one and blah blah blah this blah blah blah that.

I block him out after a few minutes of this.

* * *

I have these little bouts of insomnia that come to attack me every once in a while. I usually spend the night reading, playing video games, or going on walks around the town to take my mind off of it. And usually, I was all alone when said bouts of insomnia plagued me.

But not tonight.

It’s two A.M. in the morning.

I exit our house and am about to walk down the sidewalk, but I stop when I see Vincent standing outside his house, smoking a cigarette. His face is as inexpressive as always. He turns around, about to go back inside, until he sees me. He stops. Walks towards me.

He’s wearing his annoying baseball cap backwards and a ratty Black Flag shirt. I decide not to mention to him that they are one of my favorite bands.

“What are you doing up this late?” I ask him before he can say anything.

“I could ask you the same thing,” he replies after taking a long drag out of his cigarette.

I shrug. “I can’t sleep.”

He stares at me for a long moment before saying, “Me neither.”

He walks closer to me and sits down on our front steps. I plop down next to him after a few seconds of consideration

I can feel his gaze on me while I look around, but I ignore it. Try to, anyway.

“What?” I snap at him after getting a tad too uncomfortable.

“What?” he asks, feigning innocence.

Asshole.

“You’re staring at me,” I explain, even though I know he knows.

He takes a drag out of his cigarette and puffs a trail of smoke out. “Was I?” he asks coolly.

I nod at him before turning around again. “Why can’t you sleep?” I ask him after a few moments of silence.

“Why can’t you?” he asks.

“I dunno. I asked you first,” I reply, narrowing my eyes at him. He’s such a little smartass.

“I don’t know. I just can’t. It happens every once in a while,” he says after a long pause.

“It happens every once in a while to me, too,” I say faintly.

We stay silent for a long time after this until, without warning, Vincent pulls my arm close to him and takes a pen out of his pocket.

“What the—?” I start but Vincent shushes me.

He writes something down on my arm before dropping it and shoving his pen back into his pocket, staring ahead.

I look down at my arm curiously, eager to find out what he wrote. It’s a phone number.

“Is this your number?” I ask him.

Vincent raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, Duh.

“Yeah,” he says gruffly. “Call me…uh, you know, whenever you can’t sleep or whatever,” he continues.

He looks embarrassed to say this. I find it oddly…charming.

Of course, I won’t mention this to him.

Instead, I give him a sardonic grin and say, “Aw, Vince’s embarrassed of actually being sweet,” just to make him feel even worse about it.

I’m so sadistic.

Instead of getting angry, though, Vincent seems to know exactly what I’m doing. He smirks at me.

“Yeah, must be it,” he deadpans.

I quickly change the subject. “Hey, Vincent, did anyone ever tell you that you never look happy?”

Vincent glances at me weirdly. “No…”

“Well, you never do. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you actually smile. It’s like you don’t know how to. All you do is smirk,” I say, starting to regret opening my mouth.

“…okay,” he says, looking unsure.

Idiot.

“I say weird things when I’m uncomfortable,” I blurt out.

A corner of Vincent’s lips tugs upwards. “Okay, Alexa.”

I like the way my name sounds when he says it. I think I might’ve hit my head today or something.

Vincent doesn’t talk much. I like that. It gives me more room to listen to my highly superior and intelligent thoughts.

After an eternity of silence, I scoot closer to Vincent so that our shoulders are barely touching. I don’t know why I do it.

We stay like that for the rest of the night, occasionally breaking the silence to further mock each other, because that’s just how we work.