You Mean More to Me Than Words Could Ever Say

“Frank.”

The voice sounded distant, incomprehendable. I snuggled into the bed sheets, closing my eyes tighter and gripping the pillow my head rested on. I felt a hand on my face, soft and gentle. I sighed at the warmth of their skin.

“Frank Anthony!”

Suddenly, the hand held my face tighter, until the nails starting digging into my skin. I smacked the fingers away, sitting up in bed and glaring at my raged mother. Her frown slowly returned to a smile, and she ran her fingers through my hair. I ducked my head down, urging her to remove her hand from my head. My mother was bipolar, and sometimes it got pretty bad. She could be as sweet as she wanted one moment, but dangerously scary the next.

“It’s your first day of school hun, want me to start the coffee?” She asked, seeming to be back to her usual self. She knows how much I obsess over coffee, and no matter how tired I was, it would always wake me up.

“Yeah, mom, thanks.” I told her, making sure to sound sincere so she stayed calm.

She was already on her way out. I took off the bed covers, and clammered out of the bed, making my way to my personal bathroom to have a shower. Afterwards, I threw on jeans and a gray tee with a black hoodie, not caring about the sweltering heat outside. I hated showing skin, no matter what the weather. I ran my fingers through my hair, it was almost a mohawk but not necessarily. The sides were cut short and the middle was slightly longer, that drew out to a fringe hovering above my right eye. I almost reached for my eyeliner, when I then decided I wasn’t going to wear it anymore.

What’s the point of trying to look good for people who I don’t give a shit about and who don’t care about me anyways? I rushed downstairs, grabbing my bag and starting for the door.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” I heard my mother ask.

I cringed. You see, about a year ago, I was going through a stressful time in my life. My mother’s bipolar disorder was growing worse, and it caused her and my father to split.
Actually, my father sort’ve just walked out, without telling my mother or I goodbye. I was left with a mom that occasionally beat me. It was never harsh and hardly hurt, but then she started drinking, and that there was when she grew really violent. Because of all the stress going on in my life and combined with the fact I had a really weak stomach, I would occasionally vomit. When I got myself too worked up my stomach did as well, and I wouldn’t be able to calm it down. Over the course of this past year, I started throwing up more and more often because it became a habit, and eventually food would upset my stomach. I am able to eat, but not very often and not very much.

So when my mother asked me to eat, I knew it meant she’d make a huge breakfast and force me to eat it all. I slowly turned around, glanced at her nodding my head, and sat at the table. She served me the food right away, seeming to have already prepared it. In front of me sat scrambled eggs, bacon, toast, and orange juice.I forced myself to eat it all, with my stomach churning. My mother watched me the whole time, and when I was done she took my plate away. I finished the orange juice and placed the glass in the sink, as she stared me down the whole time.

“Pig.” She bluntly stated.

I barely reacted, I was used to this bullshit. Without another word I went out the door and into my black truck. I started it up and backed out of the drive way, heading to school. I really wasn’t looking forward to it at all. Everyone there hated me, and vice versa. The only thing I was however happy about was the fact that I was now a senior, meaning I only had one more year of this hell hole.

I arrived at the school, looking at my schedule seeing I have history first. I grunted aloud, and made my way to the class, before realizing my stomach was acting up. I headed straight for the bathroom stalls and emptied my stomach in the toilet. I felt weak and useless as I popped a mint in my mouth and headed for history, feeling like shit.