Stop Pretending That You're Sorry

“Who’s that? You got a boyfriend, Regan?” Anthony followed that with a wolf whistle.

“Shut up,” I growled, pinching the bridge of my nose.

“Oh come now, don’t be like that. I bet he’s a really great guy. How is he in bed?”

“That’s enough Anthony!”

“Ooooh, getting snappy now are we, Regan?” His right hand clenched into a fist, while his left ground the butt of his cigarette into the ashtray next to him. “That’s impolite. You don’t talk to me like that.”

Shit. Immediately I began to pray that Mr. H would drive away before Anthony was able to reach me.

“Come here.” He beckoned me over, gesturing with his hands.

Casting a glance over my shoulder, I found that my prayers were answered. Mr. H was backing out of the driveway.

Once I got close to Anthony, he placed his arm around my shoulder and guided me inside. Once the door closed behind us, hell broke loose.

He shoved me forward, sending me crashing into the wooden staircase banister. It was such a piece of shit, I’m surprised it didn’t splinter.

“You don’t talk to me like that!” Anthony bellowed, wrapping his fist in my hair and giving a sharp tug.

I shrieked in pain, unable to stop tears from escaping the corners of my eyes. He slammed me up against the wall and got right up in my face.

“Don’t you fucking dare disrespect me. You are nothing. You’re a worthless piece of shit,” He seethed, flecks of spit hitting my cheeks.

Anthony raised his hand, and I braced myself for impact but we were interrupted.

“Food.”

We both looked up to see mom’s skeletal form at the top of the stairs.

Anthony dropped me in a second, and rushed to her side.

“You hungry baby?” He asked, kissing her forehead and gingerly picking her up to carry her down the stairs.

Shit. Was he actually in love with my mom?

It was like I turned completely invisible, crumpled up on the floor with my back against the wall and tears running in little mascara polluted streams down my face.

“You want some mac’n’cheese?” He asked, carrying her down the stairs bridal style.

She gave a weak nod and together they disappeared into the kitchen.

Slowly, I got to my feet and then booked it up the stairs to my room. I threw myself face down on my bed, using my pillow to muffle my sobs.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. What had I done to deserve this? Why did my dad have to die? I fucking needed him. He always promised to be there for me when I needed him, but where was he now? Fuck!

It was around 2 in the morning when I woke up, my throat sore from screaming and my face puffy and sticky from crying. My clothes were caked onto me with sweat and my contacts had dried up slightly from falling asleep with them in.

I reached into my bag for a pair of pajamas and then headed into the bathroom to take a shower, trying to be as quiet as possible so as not to wake Anthony.

Scalding droplets of water slid down my back while my hands held me steady, leaning against the shower wall.

How could I still be crying? Was that even possible?

I once read when I was little that you only have a certain number of tears and once you cry them all out you can’t cry anymore. Looking back on it, it seemed to be complete bullshit, but at the moment I still couldn’t help myself from wondering how I hadn’t cried out all my tears yet.