Status: Sorry to leave you hanging guys! The keyboard on my laptop is malfunctioning.
Stop Pretending That You're Sorry
8
I’d hit up Walmart first, I decided, get some hangers and maybe some candles or something. Then, I would go next door to the supermarket and get some food.
I grabbed two packs of sixteen white hangers, that should be enough for all my shit. I also grabbed a cinnamon candle, an apple candle, a sandalwood candle (apparently it’s an aphrodisiac, at least that’s what Julia says), and a lavender one. As well as various shitty magazines, scissors, a sketch book, cheap water colors (the kind that come in little cakes, not tubes), pens, and glue. Like I said, my dad was an artist, after 17 years it had rubbed off on me too. But to be honest I hadn’t done anything more than doodle since he died.
Supermarket time. I was thinking sandwiches, they’re easy and who doesn’t like sandwiches? So I grabbed some turkey from the deli, guacamole, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, and some really nice bread. All of this was paid for with my dad’s money. It made me kind of sick thinking of Anthony being fed out of dad’s pocket.
“Too late now,” I muttered to myself.
I’d already told him I’d make dinner and I was not risking a beating so I could back out. Plus I was getting tired of instant ramen noodles and box mac’n’cheese. Some real food would be nice for a change, and mom looked like she needed it. She was so emaciated she almost looked like one of the Jews in the documentary we watched about the Holocaust in Mr. Harrington’s class yesterday. She really needed to stop snorting shit. I don’t even know what she was snorting, and to be honest I don’t think she really knew either.
When I got home I headed into the cramped, rundown kitchen and set the grocery bag down on the wobbly table. They didn’t have a toaster, so I looked for a frying pan. They didn’t have one of those either, so I grabbed a sauce pan, melted butter in the bottom and stuffed the bread in there to fry.
While that was in motion, I searched around for a knife which I then cleaned vigorously before cutting up the tomatoes.
Next, it was time for the bacon. Fuck, I should’ve cooked that first and then fried the bread in the bacon fat. That way the bread would be fucking delicious and still warm when I went to put it all together. Oh the fuck well, I don’t think things through.
I pulled the bread out before it was all the way crisped, that way I could stick it back in later to warm it up without burning it. The excess butter got poured out of the pot and then I laid down the bacon strips inside.
“What the fuck you cooking in here?” Anthony said, entering the room supporting mom by his side.
“Real food,” I said, turning over the bacon.
“Smells good,” Mom croaked.
That was the first thing she said since I had gotten there, and it wasn’t even said directly towards me either. It was just kind of a general statement. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little ball of happiness and pride growing in my stomach.
When the bacon finished I put the bread back in for a minute as planned, and then piled up the sandwiches. We ate huddled around the table, mom collapsed in the only unbroken chair. There wasn’t any conversation, just collective chewing noises. I can’t say it was a horrible dinner.
I finished up around the same time as Anthony, but mom took her sweet time eating. I was surprised she was able to even get food down.
I grabbed my Walmart bag and headed out of the kitchen towards the stairs, it would be fun to start on my collage before bed.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Anthony bellowed. “You clean up this mess, bitch.”
Shit. With Dad, the rule was always whoever cooked, the other person cleaned up and if we both cooked we both cleaned up. Apparently that was not the case with Anthony. He preferred the ‘You clean it up or you get punched in the face’ method much better.
I grabbed two packs of sixteen white hangers, that should be enough for all my shit. I also grabbed a cinnamon candle, an apple candle, a sandalwood candle (apparently it’s an aphrodisiac, at least that’s what Julia says), and a lavender one. As well as various shitty magazines, scissors, a sketch book, cheap water colors (the kind that come in little cakes, not tubes), pens, and glue. Like I said, my dad was an artist, after 17 years it had rubbed off on me too. But to be honest I hadn’t done anything more than doodle since he died.
Supermarket time. I was thinking sandwiches, they’re easy and who doesn’t like sandwiches? So I grabbed some turkey from the deli, guacamole, bacon, lettuce, tomatoes, and some really nice bread. All of this was paid for with my dad’s money. It made me kind of sick thinking of Anthony being fed out of dad’s pocket.
“Too late now,” I muttered to myself.
I’d already told him I’d make dinner and I was not risking a beating so I could back out. Plus I was getting tired of instant ramen noodles and box mac’n’cheese. Some real food would be nice for a change, and mom looked like she needed it. She was so emaciated she almost looked like one of the Jews in the documentary we watched about the Holocaust in Mr. Harrington’s class yesterday. She really needed to stop snorting shit. I don’t even know what she was snorting, and to be honest I don’t think she really knew either.
When I got home I headed into the cramped, rundown kitchen and set the grocery bag down on the wobbly table. They didn’t have a toaster, so I looked for a frying pan. They didn’t have one of those either, so I grabbed a sauce pan, melted butter in the bottom and stuffed the bread in there to fry.
While that was in motion, I searched around for a knife which I then cleaned vigorously before cutting up the tomatoes.
Next, it was time for the bacon. Fuck, I should’ve cooked that first and then fried the bread in the bacon fat. That way the bread would be fucking delicious and still warm when I went to put it all together. Oh the fuck well, I don’t think things through.
I pulled the bread out before it was all the way crisped, that way I could stick it back in later to warm it up without burning it. The excess butter got poured out of the pot and then I laid down the bacon strips inside.
“What the fuck you cooking in here?” Anthony said, entering the room supporting mom by his side.
“Real food,” I said, turning over the bacon.
“Smells good,” Mom croaked.
That was the first thing she said since I had gotten there, and it wasn’t even said directly towards me either. It was just kind of a general statement. Still, I couldn’t help feeling a little ball of happiness and pride growing in my stomach.
When the bacon finished I put the bread back in for a minute as planned, and then piled up the sandwiches. We ate huddled around the table, mom collapsed in the only unbroken chair. There wasn’t any conversation, just collective chewing noises. I can’t say it was a horrible dinner.
I finished up around the same time as Anthony, but mom took her sweet time eating. I was surprised she was able to even get food down.
I grabbed my Walmart bag and headed out of the kitchen towards the stairs, it would be fun to start on my collage before bed.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” Anthony bellowed. “You clean up this mess, bitch.”
Shit. With Dad, the rule was always whoever cooked, the other person cleaned up and if we both cooked we both cleaned up. Apparently that was not the case with Anthony. He preferred the ‘You clean it up or you get punched in the face’ method much better.