Knives and Pens

I stare miserably around the cluttered room that I am now forced to call my new bedroom. Boxes still litter the entire room – nothing unpacked yet – and basically none of my furniture are in their right places yet. Well, I wouldn’t even really know where the ‘right place’ for anything would be. I’m kind of pissed off at my mom for dragging me all the way here to Bellville, who is kind of pissed off at my dad for screwing his receptionist. Funny how things work out.

“Fucking douche,” I mutter under my breath.

Yeah, I’m pissed at my mom for dragging me all the way here, but my lousy asshole of a father really didn’t need to go fuck his silly blonde receptionist if he was so fucking bored. I’m not even sure why my parents ever got married in the first place, because they really didn’t belong together at all, but I still think it’s completely unfair that I had to be uprooted and moved all the way to Bellville because of their mistakes (and inevitable divorce).

My entire life had to be left behind – my school, my friends, my hopes and dreams.

Granted, school was pretty much a drag, and the place was just swarming with dicks and sluts (all ready to bully and torment); my friends were few and far between (mostly just consisting of Ashley and CC), but they were real, and they were there; and, as for my hopes and dreams, I suppose I could probably amount to nothing but a rebel and a failure wherever I lived, so that’s at least one thing to count on.

With a heavy sigh, I clear most of the shit covering my bed, piling it neatly in one corner. I may not be fully set on unpacking yet, but I’m sure as hell going to conjure myself up a little space to sulk – maybe even write a bit.

As I’m moving one of the boxes, it crumbles under the pressure, sending its contents spilling everywhere. Among those things are my little notebook (the one I usually reserve for lyrics and poems – instead of school work) and the picture of Ashley, CC and I that I kept on my bedside drawer back home – at our old home, I guess.

With a huff, I refold the box, tossing all the contents back inside (along with the picture – which I don’t spare a second glance), and move the box to the rest of the boxes in the pile – more carefully this time. The notebook, I toss onto my bed, though. That’s actually something that might come in handy.

After shoving the last two boxes on my bed into the same pile against the wall, I rummage all my shit for my (black, to my mother’s total dismay) sheets. I make the bed, even though it’s kind of still standing in the middle of fucking nowhere, and plomp down on it (clothes, shoes, and all). With my legs bent Indian style, I grab the notebook that I tossed onto my bed earlier, along with the pen that I had stashed in my jacket pocket earlier, and flip to a clear page on the notebook (not reading through what I have written down in there already). I immediately start letting the words flow, not giving them any second thoughts as they just spill out of me.

I have no idea how much time passes, with me just lost in my own little world, letting the words that are raging inside my mind bleed out freely through the pen onto my private little notebook, when it’s completely ruined by my mother bursting into my room.

“Fucking what?” I hiss, making it perfectly clear that her presence in my room isn’t exactly welcome at the moment – or any moment in the near future.

“Andy,” she says in a warning tone, and I don’t even refrain from rolling my eyes.

“Yeah, yeah. What do you want, Mom?” I sigh, long and deeply suffering, making my annoyance (and the fact that I really don’t want to be disturbed by her right now) perfectly clear.

“Okay, one,” she starts, taking on a firmer tone, “I get that you’re upset about the move and everything, but I am still your mother, so you will watch how you talk to me,” she glares, and even points an accusatory finger in my direction, to which I just snort, trying to hide a smirk, and roll my eyes. “Two,” she continues, firmly set on ignoring my reaction, “we moved, Andy, it’s a fact, whether you want to acknowledge it, or not. You will need to unpack sometime, and I suggest that time be right the hell now. You haven’t unpacked all day, and, look, your bed is right in the middle of the room. I’m serious, Andy. You are gonna lift your ass, and help us settle in here. This is not easy for me, either.”

“Oh, really?” I raise my eyebrow at her. “Okay, then. Was that all?” I add cockily, really just wanting her to leave me alone again.

“I’m ordering pizza, and then you’re going to start unpacking.”

“Yeah, no, I’m not hungry,” I reply shortly, “and I don’t really feel like unpacking, either.”

“You will come eat some pizza, and at least start unpacking,” she insists. “I swear, you will have a liveable room before school starts. And you’re not leaving me to do the rest of the house by myself either.”

“Whatever,” I mumble, returning my attention to my notebook, to the anger and hurt that had been flowing out of me all the while I had been hunched over on my bed.

I suddenly realise how stiff my muscles feel from sitting in this same position all day, and untangle my legs, and stretch out, instantly feeling relief. I realise my mother still hasn’t left my room, and ignoring her obviously isn’t sending her on her way, so I turn my attention back to her, albeit a little reluctantly.

“What?” I snap.

“Instead of always writing in that little notebook of yours, you might actually try talking to me, Andy,” she says calmly, even though I can still tell how upset and annoyed she is.

“You want to talk?” I ask sarcastically, swinging my legs over the edge of the bed, crossing my arms over my chest, but making no move to actually get up from my bed and approach her. “Okay. Let’s talk,” I continue. “Let’s talk about how I really think that even though that prick went and fucked his whore of a receptionist, it really took two people to fuck up a marriage which was doomed from the get go. Or,” I go on, not about to back down, “we could talk about the fact that, if none of this shit had taken place, and I hadn’t been forced to pack all my shit and move, I’d have actual friends right now. And I’d probably have an actual boyfriend. Or, hey, we could talk about how much it sucks that I’m forced to go through all this alone, because I’m the only child unlucky enough to have been born to-“

“That’s enough,” she cuts me off firmly.

I’m actually surprised (and maybe even a little impressed) that I actually got this far in my rant at all, before I got cut off. She knows perfectly well that I’m right, though. About all of it. A marriage is supposed to be nurtured and maintained by both partners, and that definitely wasn’t the case here. As for my friends, the distance would inevitably put a major strain on that, until it possibly just dies down in time. And, it’s true, if I didn’t have to leave, because of other people’s fucking mistakes, Ashley and I would have actually stood a chance. And if I’d had a sibling I wouldn’t have to go through all this torture alone (not that I really wish any of this on another person).

“Okay, so now we talked,” I huff. “Are we done here? I want to be alone,” I state clearly and directly, because she doesn’t seem to pick up on that fact.

With a sigh, I see resignation wash over her. Deep down, I feel a little guilty for it, but there’s no reason for me to be the only one to suffer (especially when none of the divorce or move was even remotely my fault).

“Fine,” she replies shortly. “We won’t talk now, but I won’t tolerate you being an asshole forever, Andy.”

Without another word, she turns and leaves me alone (like I wanted). I’m mostly grateful for it, because she is part of the reason for my life being a bit of a shithole at the moment. Before I allow myself to begin to feel too guilty for acting like a jerk towards her, though, I get up from the bed, and start removing my clothes, leaving me in just my boxers. I toss everything into a pile on the floor next to the bed, crawling into bed. I curl myself into a ball beneath the covers, and allow every emotion inside me to rage and make itself knows, allowing myself to really feel every single one. I’m not really big on crying, but there are still a handful of tears escaping my eyes, which is probably not really surprising.

My thoughts raging and screaming gets too much for me to handle properly in the silence, and I search blindly for my ipod, finding instant comfort and relief in the music blasting through my earphones.

I must fall asleep to my music at some point, because I wake up a while later – thirsty, but also really needing the bathroom.

Using my phone’s light to find my way to the bathroom, I quickly relieve my bladder, stretching out while I do so. I sigh as I wash my hands, because the basin isn’t at the same place it was at our old home. I notice that there isn’t a hand-towel on the hook next to the sink yet, so I just huff and dry it off on my boxers.

I’m about to go see if there is anything in the fridge to drink, when I hear soft sobbing sounds from my mother’s room. Sighing, I rather make my way to her. I enter her room, and wordlessly make my over to her bed. She is lying on her side, with both her hands beneath her head, not even trying to stop her tears. Still not uttering a word, I sit down on the edge of the bed, comfortingly rubbing back until she falls back asleep.

Obviously I’m not the only one suffering here.