Damaged

The rain pours down the windowsill and pitter patters too, lighting flashes and the thunder growls, the wind blowing by and the sky is a dull gray—like my mood. I like the rain when I’m in this mood; sad, depressed, and maybe a bit angry.

As I was looking out the window I was startled when my door opened and my mom stepped in.

“Frank, are you going to help me unpack the boxes or are you just going to keep moping around all day?” my mom asked.

“Moping,” I sighed.

“Stop it then.” I narrowed my eyes at her. “Don’t give me that look.”

“I want to go back to our old house.”

“You know we can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Oh, yeah, whatever,” I said sarcastically, “Because our creepy neighbor watched us? Uh, you do know there’s a thing called a restraining order?”

“I don’t trust those. They don’t always work.”

“Whatever, ma,” I rolled my eyes as I snapped at her. My mom sighed before walking out and closing the door, “Finally.”

People say I should feel bad for snapping at my mom. I don’t think so. There are so many reasons as to why I don’t and the few are because she’s always getting onto me, bitching at me, she left the neighborhood I grew up in because of a neighbor and because she made me lose all my friends.

The only thing I thank her for is for divorcing my dad…for reasons I don’t want to go into…

I sighed and got out of my seat to look at all the brown, soggy, unpacked boxes. They’ve been there for at least twelve hours and I haven’t touched one, well, except to get clothes, that’s about it.

I opened up the boxes and dumped everything out. I kicked everything. I threw everything. I hated everything. I hate this house. I hate me. I hate him. I hate her.

When I was done kicking, messing things up I looked around for my guitar, it was in a case. I couldn’t find it.
I walked downstairs and saw my mom sitting on the floor, “Ma?”

“What?”

“Where’s my guitar?”

“I sold it.”

I felt my jaw drop and I felt like my heart crashed into millions of tiny pieces. That guitar was everything to me—and when I say everything, I truly mean it too. I got that guitar at the age of thirteen (I’m almost seventeen) and now my mom sold it.

“W-what why-why would you do that to my things—my things, you knew I loved that guitar!” I yelled.

“Calm down, Frank,” she said. “You can’t have guitars or any type of instrument in this apartment.”

I seethed, “Why the fuck not, mom?”

“Watch your mouth,” she warned. “And it’s because of the noise. Not everyone wants to hear it, alright?”

“Screw everyone else.”

“Don’t be like that. You hate it when you hear other’s music.”

“Whatever,” I scoffed. “I could’ve at least played it somewhere private.”

“How about I buy you a new one when I get money?”

“No, that guitar was special to me.”

“You’re so stubborn, Frank,” she sighed. “Just like your father—”

“Shut up!” I screamed. “Don’t mention him.”

“Oh, get over it, Frank,” she sighed. “It’s been five years. He’s gone.”

I gritted my teeth and I was fuming. I was furious; I thought steam would be coming out of my ears because of how furious I was. The topic of my father always made me upset. I use to cry about it, but I don’t anymore. I just get really, really angry.

“Of course you can get over it!” I screamed. “But I can’t.”

“Frank, all he did was touched you.”

“Oh, yeah, must’ve forgot,” I said sarcastically. “But it wasn’t just a ‘touch’, ma. It was…he…he—you know, he touched me in-in private places,” I licked my lips nervously.

“Whatever,” my mom brushed me off.

I looked down at my dirty converse shoes and I bit my quivering lip. I wasn’t going to cry, I don’t cry anymore. I clenched my fists. My fists were turning white and I bet my face was beat red, and I was shaking with anger from head to toe. I brought my fists up and punched the wall. The punch was hard enough to make a hole in the wall.
“Frank!” my mom said.

“What?” I was so angry…so, so angry.

“Go,” she pointed to the upstairs and to my room, “Now.”

I stomped upstairs and into my room. I slammed the door and locked it, I walked around the mess I made and jumped onto the bed. I grabbed my phone and turned on music. I turned it up as loud as possible and tried to drown out the world.

I couldn’t, though. I heard a door open downstairs and my mom called.

I walked downstairs and saw three people standing, a woman, and two boys around my age, maybe older.
“Frank, meet the Ways,” my mom said. “They’re our neighbors, they came to say hello.”

“Hi,” a boy with mousy brown hair and glasses said.

“I’m Donna,” a woman—now known as Donna—said. “This is Gerard,” she pointed to a boy with jet black hair and hazel eyes. He wasn’t skinny but he wasn’t fat, he wore band a shirt I liked. “And this is Mikey,” she pointed to the boy with mousy hair.

“This is Frank,” my mom said, pointing to me. “I’m Linda.”

“Hello, Linda and Frank,” Donna said.

I waved. “How about you boys go make yourself comfortable, and you too Donna, do you guys want anything to drink?” my mom asked.

“Um, uh, water’s fine,” Donna said.

“Alright, I’ll be back.”

I sat on the couch with the Ways and sat awkwardly. I occasionally looked at all of them and then looked back down or sometimes I’d look at Gerard and his pretty eyes and or face.

“So, how old are you, Frank?” Donna asked.

“I’m sixteen almost seventeen.”

“Oh, Mikey is too. Gerard’s nineteen.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, um, are you going to go to the school down the street?”

“Dunno, maybe?”

“If you are it’s quite a nice school.”

'Doubt it,' I thought to myself.

I saw my mom walk back into the room carrying three bottles of water and gave each one of them to us. I opened mine but stopped when I saw Gerard doing something.

I looked over to Donna and raised an eyebrow that was basically saying ‘what?’

“He said thank you in Sign Language.”

“Oh. Is he…?”

“He’s mute.”

“Was he bo—” my mom shot me a look and I shut up.

“Yeah, he was born mute. We’ve all been taught ASL—American Sign Language—and that’s basically how we communicate.”

“That’s awesome, Donna,” my mom said cheerfully. “So, Gerard, how-how would you sign your name?”

Gerard put his index finger out and pointing it straight forward. “Normally people call him ‘Gee’ so he makes that sign. That sign means the letter ‘G’,” Mikey said.

“That’s really cool. Maybe Frankie and I could learn it too.”

“You really should, Linda, it’s easy but it takes dedication,” Donna said. “We could teach you if you like.”

My mom hummed. “That’d be great.”

“Where’s your bathroom?” Mikey said for Gerard as he signed.

“Down the hall and to your right,” my mom spoke.

“It must’ve been pretty easy to tell he was mute, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah, it was.”

“Does it suck?”

Donna shrugged. “Not really, I mean it is a pain because we have to say things out loud for him when he doesn’t have pen and paper—which is quite rare, really—but other than that it’s fine.”
“How long did it take you to learn?”

“Uh, well, I learned it when Gerard was a year-old but it took a while to because he was needy and I was still teaching him too. For Mikey it didn't take him long.”

“Wow.”

“So what do you like to do?”

“Play guitar…I guess.”

“I play bass,” Mikey said. “I’m not very good, but I play.”

“Cool.”

“Maybe we should play together?”

“You know…I would but my mom sold my guitar.”

“Oh my God, why would she sell it?”

“Because I guess there’s a noise rule?”

“Ugh.”

“Yeah, I know, right?” Mikey hummed. “How long have you been playing?”

“Uh, one year, I think.”

“That’s cool.”

Gerard walked back out of the living room and sat back down near his mom. I felt bad because I couldn’t understand Gerard of course but I still wanted to get to know him inside and see what he’s like, personality wise.

“Gerard?” Gerard looked up at me. “Do you play any instruments?” Gerard put his index and middle finger together before pressing them down onto his thumb and shaking his head. “What do you like to do?”

Gerard smiled. He brought his right palm up and used his index and middle finger going up and down. “Painting,” Mikey said. “He likes to paint.”

“How would you spell my name in Sign Language?”

Gerard made his index and thumb make a circle, his middle, ring finger and pinky pointing up. “F”, Mikey said. “R” was made with his index and middle finger wrapping around each other as if going back on a promise. “A” was like a fist but the thumb was pointing up. “N” the thumb was underneath the index and middle finger, and his fist was closed. “K” had the index finger straight up, middle was forward and the thumb was facing up but beside the middle.

“Wow. That’s-that’s…cool,” I smiled. Gerard giggled silently. “How long have you guys been living here?”

Gerard’s left fist was sideways and on top of the right, he slowly lifted his left and then he held up three fingers. “Three years, he said,” Mikey translated.

“Um,” Donna broke out conversation and hers with my mom. “It’s time to go.”

“Okay,” I said. “Bye.”

“See you later, Frank?” Gerard signed and Mikey said.

“Yeah,” I nodded my head.

Gerard, Mikey, and Donna said their goodbyes and left. I watched as they walked across the street and into their own homes. I walked out of the living room and into my room.

I lay on the bed thinking about what would happen tomorrow. Because I really wanted to see them again…