Scattered

“Quin, tell me how you feel, though.”

The overbearing scent of alcohol still lounged against the hairs inside my nostrils as I sat in the clean room. It’s too clean, far too clean. It filled me with a sense of transparency, immune to sight, sound, and light. What could I say to them that would make me sound normal, if there even was such a thing? They already figure me to be homicidally suicidal. They already figured me to be a danger and a threat. What could I say?

“I feel bored.” I replied after a moment’s thoughts. The man before me was middle-aged and slender. His blonde hair was full and thick and the crinkles around his eyes were very minimal. Woman found Mr. Mercer attractive, though I couldn’t see why.

The sigh of exasperation exited his lips as his fingers covered his left eye horizontally and touched into the blonde locks. “What do I have to do to make you take this seriously?”

The snap of his voice forced the hairs on my arms to stand to attention. Eyes widening for a partial second before I dumbed my astonishment back to boredom. “You don’t have to do anything.”

“Quin,” my name left his lips with quick exaggeration and heavy demand for my attention, “Your brother and his best friend were murdered on the front line. Your father left your mother and you behind to be with another woman. Your mother drinks herself dry every night after work. Why aren’t you angry?”

A half-hearted shrug pulled up my right shoulder. “Why should I be angry?”

Of course I’m angry. Hell, I’m livid. They didn’t need to know that. I had a hunch. It was a simple diagram. They already thought oh-so-highly of me thus far, if they found that I had a temper, that I got into fights and won and walked away, I’d be even more susceptible to these little late afternoon therapy sessions.

“Because…” I knew what he was going to say. Because your life sucks. “Because you shouldn’t have so much responsibility at eighteen.”

“Well, I do.” I responded shortly, my tone was clipped but I didn’t care if that made some difference to him. I looked up at the clock and rolled my shoulders back. “My time’s up.”

“Quin!” again, there was that demand lying within my name. “I want to help you.”

I nodded and pulled my dark grey trench coat closed around my baggy navy V-neck and dark slender jeans. “That’s great, but I’m something of a lost cause.”

With that, I pulled a Camel Crush from deep in my pocket and lit it up. Saluting my therapist, I walked out of his home office and out the front door. Did I actually believe that I was a lost cause? No. Did everyone else believe that? Yes.

As I walked along, I finally came to the break in the street to the railroad tracks. So much to think about, too much to care about. It was best to take this way home, no one really saw me walking along and therefore no one stepped away from me with fear or shoved me with anger. People had no shame in this little po-dunk town, I happened to be one of those people.

When I looked up, I could see the towering cathedral, the bell easily recognizable. Slowly exhaling the smoke spirals through my nose, I thought of the Preacher. In a normal town, it’d be a mayor or a senator or, I don’t know, the president controlling everything. In this small, bleak town it was the Preacher.

To give you some sort of insight, it’s much like Footloose. The separation between church and state doesn’t exist. To Preacher Tompson, there are only saints and sinners. The saying: every saint has a past, every sinner has a future doesn’t apply here. Ever.

Evidently, Preacher Tompson hated me. Oh, but did I hate that bastard right back. As if that wasn’t enough, most of the town hated, or rather feared me because of his judgment. The only friends I had were others that looked up to me for defying the most powerful figure in our town. All in a good day’s work, of course.

“Well, if it isn’t Greensville’s very own sweetheart.” I muttered loud enough as I worked through my cigarette.

Sparrow Tompson closed the book she was reading quickly and snapped her head to the side. She was sitting on the edge of the bridge, her legs dangling over and her body leaning toward certain death. In the early evening glow, her chestnut hair took on tints of auburn. She was dressed in what must have been her Sunday’s best: a little beige sundress with a jacket, black leggings, and her ankle-high boots.

After her body calmed to the sight of me, she returned to reading her book. “Quin, when will you understand that you don’t particularly bother me?”

“When you actually start to sound believable.” I allowed the words to roll off my tongue along with my menthol-spiced smoke. “Does daddy know you’re out here, all alone, on a school night?”

“What my father does and doesn’t know doesn’t concern you.” She snapped rather harshly as she turned the page. I smirked.

“It would seem that you’re getting a little bothered.” I whispered just a couple feet above her head, the words slithered from my tongue in a sultry manner.

Scoffing and shaking her head, Sparrow muttered with confidence, “Just as well, Mr. Delmarko, what does and doesn’t bother me doesn’t concern you either.”

“Whatever you say, sweet cheeks.”

Saluting her with my burning cigarette held high, I continued on my journey until I found the break in the trees. I stared down at my rose-covered hands, the luscious blood red faded slightly with the time, some thorn vines were easily seen on my wrists where the cuffs of the jacket began. I pulled the last cigarette from its pack, lit it, and tossed the pack at the ground.

The sun was starting to fall from the sky and I needed to get home, but not before I bought my next fix. As I moved through the break in the trees and walked up the gravelly path to the Gas&Go, I saw the few people filling up their cars freeze in their positions. Their eyes stared, their expressions changed, they made me feel like the outcast. All because of him.

Flicking ashes at a kid that was in my grade, his expression gawking and childishly scared. I lunged at him and stopped short of getting in his face. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you that it was most insanely rude to stare at strangers?”

The kid jumped reversely and pressed himself against the minivan he drove. He didn’t look at me now; his gawking stare faced the ground. “I-I’m sorry.”

I nodded once and proceeded inside the small shop. My expression brightened when I saw a thick, tall tattoo-covered man. “Mick! What’s happening, my man?”

Mick held his hand out to me, and I slammed mine into his with an ear-ringing clap and shook it for a moment. “What are you up to, chicken shit?”

A broad grin pulled at my lips at the sound of the insult. “Get me my usual, asshole.”

“Sure thing.” He smiled back at me with the same happy ease. Turning his back, he went and grabbed two Camel Crush’s down from behind the glass and I handed him eleven dollars. "Why don’t you try to make those last a bit longer than four days, huh? You don’t need to have lung cancer by the time you're thirty.”

Smirking with malice, I rolled my eyes openly at the thick man. “Ah, but we all live to die, Mick. I just don’t mind if I speed up my process.”

_________

When I walked through the door to our two-storied house, I was welcomed to the sounds of my mother calling out and moaning her boyfriend’s name. Fingers rubbing my eyes, I walked up the stairs and was even more welcomed to see that they were on the couch. His hand grabbed her neck and she gasped out. “Tell me how you like it?”

Eyes widening in anger and hatred, I stomped up the stairs and kicked Harris in the ribs. He rolled off my mother and slammed against the floor. I growled, “I’ll tell you how I like it.”

Harris scrambled to pull his sweatpants up and hang them loosely on his hips as my mother screamed and pulled her baggy T-shirt over her head. “Quin! Stop it!”

Harris started toward me and I grabbed his shoulder and brought my foot up to the pit of his stomach and kicked as hard as my muscles could. A lung-collapsing gasp roared through the man’s throat as he gripped me by the neck and dug his fingers deep. His eyes widened as he threw us backwards, my head bouncing off the wall close by.

After closing my eyes for a second to clear the black spots, I swiped his foot from beneath him and brought my knee down into his stomach, hitting something large and internal. He yowled in pain, his eyes widening dramatically as he opened his mouth. I ripped his hand off my neck, blood slipping down the contours of my skin where his nails broke through.

My fingers mimicked his, holding his neck in sin as I growled with a throaty threat through clenched teeth. “Listen to me! If you ever touch my mother ever again, I swear to everything Tompson believes, I’ll fucking kill you!”

I didn’t wait for his reply. I ripped him from the ground and wove my fingers into his hair as I dragged him down the steps, his feet uncooperative, and threw him out the door. I watched his body tumble down the three wooden steps and slowly drag himself from the ground. Thrusting the door closed, I locked it and started back up toward my mother.

She was now dressed in a pair of short black athletic shorts. Her arms were wrapped around her knees and she looked up from where her head was buried between them.

“Why do you always do this to me, Quin?”

The sound of my boots clacking off the hardwood and the sound of my mother’s weak sobs was all that filled the house. I shook my head and looked around, watching her slowly creep over and grab the clear bottle of Vodka.

“Mother, no. Not today, please not today.” I begged as I slowly walked toward her, my hand held out like I was confiscating cookies from an innocent three year old rather than alcohol from a thirty-six year old.

She clung to the bottle much like the three year old would with the cookies. “I am your mother! You don’t tell me what to do.”

“I said no!” I snapped the last word as it bit at my tongue with heavy demand. Clearing my throat, I spoke softly, “Mother, give it to me. Please?”

She threw the bottle at the floor, shattering and skidding across the hardwood as I reached out to take it from her. I didn’t even jump back. I knew she would never be manic enough to throw it at me. She stood up on her two bare feet and walked over the broken shards and slick wetness.

“You don’t tell me! I tell you!” she screamed as she charged me, gripping me by the collar of my jacket and thrusting us into the wall.

I allowed her to beat her hands off my chest. “You’re the reason he left! You made him leave! I hate you!” she sobbed as she scratched at my face and returned to beating me.

Where her nails bit into my cheek, I could feel the blood trickle down my skin. I could feel the bruises broaden the more she beat into my chest until her intoxicated form collapsed against me. I was a whole head taller than her; she said that I was cursed with my father’s height. As she collapsed against me, that’s when her sobs filled with agonizing reverberations. Her meek fingers curled around the collar of my jacket as she snuggly tucked her head beneath my chin.

“Come, mother.” I scooped her up like a child and walked down the hall, where her bedroom was positioned and whispered cooingly, “Let’s put you to bed.”

Her arms encircled my shoulders, her cheek nuzzled against the newly tenderized side of my neck. Her lips pressed against the edge of my jaw as she slurred softly, “Thank you, my Quin.”

I smiled at the bittersweet apology that she presented with a gentle sweet of her lips. She reminded me of a child more than a mother, I was her guardian instead of the other way around. Nudging the door open with my foot, I slowly walked over to her bed.

As I sat down with her in my lap, I gently peeled her arms from my neck. She resisted, but only slightly. I slowly crept out from under her and laid her easily into her bed, laying the blanket around her gently.

“Quin?” she called desperately as I started to rise from her bed, her hands reaching out and grabbing my wrist tightly. I looked down at her, her room pitch black with the new night. “Don’t leave.”

Slowly, I peeled her fingers from my wrist one-by-one. My hand pressed against her slender waist as I smiled sweetly at her. “It’s okay, mother. I’ll be just upstairs if you need me. I’m always here if you need me.”

She nodded, her pupils more than dialed as the bright blue shone in the limited moonlight. She reached for my hands and kissed each hand-covering rose tattoo and then reached up and kissed both dog tags with Micah Delmarko and Reese Bender etched into them. Then rubbed her fingers into the dark green guitar pick that I had strung on a thick black string. She did this every night, her way of bidding me sweet dreams.

Again, my bittersweet smile pressed against my lips as I kissed the crown of her head. Her arms reached around me and held me tightly. Smoothing my fingers down through the soft blonde tendrils, she spoke slowly, “So much like him. Black hair and black eyes. Just like him.”

I winced at the pointed allegations of how identical my father and I look. I pulled myself from her grip and she curled around her body pillow, clutching it to her like a lifeline. As I walked out the door, she yawned, “Mama loves you, Quin.”

“I know.” I whispered as I slowly closed the door, leaving it open just a crack so I could hear her snoring from my attic bedroom.

I climbed the spiral wooden stairs and moved my blood red sheet that acted as a door. From the small window seat, I picked up my acoustic guitar and grabbed one of my many picks and started to softly sing the lyrics to a Framing Hanley song until the soft pinks and purples filled the morning sky.

This is my life.