Status: Gettin' there.
Sid and the Last Five Years
You Always Laugh.
We both departed, went out separate ways once I reached the Biology room. I didn't expect Eric to stick around with me, but a part of me buried in my subconscious really hoped that he would, just even say goodbye to me, not just leave as if he were unwanted. I was desperate for attention, even if it were from someone like Eric, someone who gave varied amounts of attention to many, many girls; pretty girls, at that.
It was all my stupid mom's fault, if she wasn't so damn stupid to leave me alone, none of this stupid shit would have happened. And Dad was stupid too; he believed the stupid bitch, he believed her. If she hadn't birthed me, hatred would have already blossomed from this developing bud of rage. I'm growing angrier and angrier at the world, although my emotions should be directed towards my alcoholic mother who didn't give a shit, I pointed the finger at everything and everyone who intentionally or accidentally pissed me off. And because I was such a small, keep-to-herself girl with such a quiet, little voice, I crammed all of it, metaphorically, in a bottle, and eventually- Eventually, the bottle would topple over because it couldn't hand all that shit jammed inside it. Once the bottle toppled over, it would shatter, because it was glass, shards flinging in every other direction, stabbing innocent bystanders because they were there to see the bottle fall, the contents inside it explode.
Dad didn't understand what he did while he was doing it, he didn't think about it, he just snapped- And that's going to be me one day. I'm going to be that branch you go step on to cross the small ravine that breaks beneath your feet, giving you a soggy foot and a cold, long walk home from the way you came.
*
That night, the night was so quiet. A rich cloak of silence forbid the moon to shine, or the clouds to show, a single star would have overpowered the sky, it was the worst type of night; it was a lonely, black night. The wood stove wasn't lit, and the room was cold, but it grew to be freezing that night. One thin wall over, I could hear Adam groaning unpleasantly, disturbed from the ice soon to grow on the shingles of the house, soon to coating each individual blade of grass, and grace us with its heartless presence. If my mother wouldn't have sprung just a little further into her wallet and got that nice, small heater that took up very little of the room, and produced so much warmth, maybe Adam and I could avoid the deep threat the early cold Fall was introducing.
Taking a heaping pile of thin, colorless blankets most likely made of lint and old hair from the closet, I brought them in to Adam's room. Although he had many more blankets than me, it was more important for Adam to be warm than happy; putting others before yourself pays off in the long run, so I've been told. “It's going to be fine, I'll warm us up some hot chocolate and I'll plug in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You know how you love that movie.” Dad used to love that movie too, laughing at every scene that was made to be humorous, although he had seen the movie more than a dozen times. I used to be able to recite the movie line for lines in some places throughout it, but now it was nothing but a mere memory, only pulled out for Adam's enjoyment in the rough patches that life occasionally will have.
Leaving the room for a short moment, I brought in the VCR cassette tape with Matthew Broderick's face planted on the front, plastic cover. I opened the movie and dust immediately filled the air, and although it wasn't really there- Although probably no one but me felt this way- I could smell the old popcorn and taste the salty butter, feel the sleeping bags on the cold, hardwood floor in the yellow house, I could feel my dad's arm around my shoulder, I could hear the joyous laughs repeated every other minute, I could feel the rightness of how things used to be.
Even though I felt the sudden rejoice in old times, and even though I was eager to plug in the TV and start watching the plot unfold about the clever boy who decided he would skip out on Principal Rooney, Adam wasn't. He was in tears, and these tears weren't the normal tantrum type that welled up in his eyes when a meal wasn't perfect, or when his words didn't come out just as right as he wanted them to, these were tears of abandonment. “Mom,” he spoke in a voice not often heard from Adam, the quiet, almost silent one you have to be listening for to hear.
“I'm sure she'll be home soon,” I lied. I had a habit of lying to save my ass.
'You know that's not true, why lie to the retard?' His voice was the inconsiderate mock I heard, and knocks from the room over, knocks like a persistent neighbor ready to grant you with holiday treats around Christmas time, flooded the room as if a dam had just broke and water went everywhere. The knocking of his fist on the back of my closet, to ridicule me, to show he had power, to show he could laugh in my face when I was trying. I glanced at Adam, his eyes still crossed, his lips still swollen, he was still sad; he had not heard the knocking.
“C'mon, I know you want to see that scene with him at the parade one more time. It's funny, you always laugh,” I smiled, and struggled to give him that kiss on the forehead I did, with the obnoxious knocking blaring throughout the room.
It was all my stupid mom's fault, if she wasn't so damn stupid to leave me alone, none of this stupid shit would have happened. And Dad was stupid too; he believed the stupid bitch, he believed her. If she hadn't birthed me, hatred would have already blossomed from this developing bud of rage. I'm growing angrier and angrier at the world, although my emotions should be directed towards my alcoholic mother who didn't give a shit, I pointed the finger at everything and everyone who intentionally or accidentally pissed me off. And because I was such a small, keep-to-herself girl with such a quiet, little voice, I crammed all of it, metaphorically, in a bottle, and eventually- Eventually, the bottle would topple over because it couldn't hand all that shit jammed inside it. Once the bottle toppled over, it would shatter, because it was glass, shards flinging in every other direction, stabbing innocent bystanders because they were there to see the bottle fall, the contents inside it explode.
Dad didn't understand what he did while he was doing it, he didn't think about it, he just snapped- And that's going to be me one day. I'm going to be that branch you go step on to cross the small ravine that breaks beneath your feet, giving you a soggy foot and a cold, long walk home from the way you came.
*
That night, the night was so quiet. A rich cloak of silence forbid the moon to shine, or the clouds to show, a single star would have overpowered the sky, it was the worst type of night; it was a lonely, black night. The wood stove wasn't lit, and the room was cold, but it grew to be freezing that night. One thin wall over, I could hear Adam groaning unpleasantly, disturbed from the ice soon to grow on the shingles of the house, soon to coating each individual blade of grass, and grace us with its heartless presence. If my mother wouldn't have sprung just a little further into her wallet and got that nice, small heater that took up very little of the room, and produced so much warmth, maybe Adam and I could avoid the deep threat the early cold Fall was introducing.
Taking a heaping pile of thin, colorless blankets most likely made of lint and old hair from the closet, I brought them in to Adam's room. Although he had many more blankets than me, it was more important for Adam to be warm than happy; putting others before yourself pays off in the long run, so I've been told. “It's going to be fine, I'll warm us up some hot chocolate and I'll plug in Ferris Bueller's Day Off. You know how you love that movie.” Dad used to love that movie too, laughing at every scene that was made to be humorous, although he had seen the movie more than a dozen times. I used to be able to recite the movie line for lines in some places throughout it, but now it was nothing but a mere memory, only pulled out for Adam's enjoyment in the rough patches that life occasionally will have.
Leaving the room for a short moment, I brought in the VCR cassette tape with Matthew Broderick's face planted on the front, plastic cover. I opened the movie and dust immediately filled the air, and although it wasn't really there- Although probably no one but me felt this way- I could smell the old popcorn and taste the salty butter, feel the sleeping bags on the cold, hardwood floor in the yellow house, I could feel my dad's arm around my shoulder, I could hear the joyous laughs repeated every other minute, I could feel the rightness of how things used to be.
Even though I felt the sudden rejoice in old times, and even though I was eager to plug in the TV and start watching the plot unfold about the clever boy who decided he would skip out on Principal Rooney, Adam wasn't. He was in tears, and these tears weren't the normal tantrum type that welled up in his eyes when a meal wasn't perfect, or when his words didn't come out just as right as he wanted them to, these were tears of abandonment. “Mom,” he spoke in a voice not often heard from Adam, the quiet, almost silent one you have to be listening for to hear.
“I'm sure she'll be home soon,” I lied. I had a habit of lying to save my ass.
'You know that's not true, why lie to the retard?' His voice was the inconsiderate mock I heard, and knocks from the room over, knocks like a persistent neighbor ready to grant you with holiday treats around Christmas time, flooded the room as if a dam had just broke and water went everywhere. The knocking of his fist on the back of my closet, to ridicule me, to show he had power, to show he could laugh in my face when I was trying. I glanced at Adam, his eyes still crossed, his lips still swollen, he was still sad; he had not heard the knocking.
“C'mon, I know you want to see that scene with him at the parade one more time. It's funny, you always laugh,” I smiled, and struggled to give him that kiss on the forehead I did, with the obnoxious knocking blaring throughout the room.