I hated getting worked up over insignificant things.
Chapter 4 - Remorse
I pulled up to my house and tossed my third consecutive cigarette out the window. I slowly turned the engine off, but remained in the truck. I ground my teeth together, recalling the days events. I hated getting worked up over insignificant things. And Mikey was definitely insignificant. I slammed my fist on the steering wheel and shoved open the door. I stomped to the front door in a huff, and once inside went directly downstairs to my room. I grabbed some clothes from the floor and changed out of my school uniform, into some jeans and a white v-neck t shirt. I flopped down on the bed and picked up my phone. I needed to get my mind off of this day.
I tapped my fingers on the phone while I tried to think of who could best do that for me. "Emily," I said out loud. I dialed her number and waited for her to answer.
"Hello?" She answered, sounding slightly annoyed.
"Hey sweetheart, what are you up to tonight?"
She sighed. "Frank, I haven't heard from you in like two weeks."
I rolled my eyes. "I'm sorry, I've been so busy. I really want to see you. I had a bad day and you know how to cheer me up,"
"Well, since I know what it takes to cheer you up, I'm sure you can find someone else to help you with that."
"Aw, c'mon now--" She hung up, cutting me off. "Fuck sakes." I threw the phone on the floor. Mikey flashed into my mind again. My hands balled up into fists; this was completely unnatural. I'd never had this much trouble getting a girl off my mind, so why was Mikey's face so consistent in my thoughts now? I wasn't queer. I'd kill himself if I was, assuming my father didn't have the chance first.
I turned onto my side, memories of all the times I'd teased Mikey flooding my mind. A feeling that was new to me took over my stomach. Remorse. Mikey had never done anything wrong. In fact, he'd tried to be really nice to me on several occasions. I couldn't imagine my friends' reactions if I'd treated him likewise. They would have made me the laughing stock of their group, possibly even stopped hanging out with me. An exasperated sigh rushed out of my lungs. I heard a door slam upstairs, followed by my parents voices. I couldn't handle them interrogating me about my day at that point, so I grabbed my jacket and hopped up the stairs two at a time. "I'm going out!" I called, yanking the front door open.
"Woah, Frank slow down. Dinner is soon." My mother called. I paused in the doorway, hearing her light footsteps approaching me. "I feel like I haven't seen you all week, dear. Please eat with us and then you can go out."
I rolled my eyes dramatically. "Fine, whatever." I sullenly followed my mom to the kitchen and slumped into a chair at the table.
"Sit up straight, son." my father said from behind his paper. I shifted my spine to appease my dad. I just had to suffer through dinner then I could bolt. Where I would go, I was unsure.
"So, Frank, how was school today?" my mother inquired, shuffling around the kitchen.
"Good," I said evenly, unconsciously playing with my lip ring.
I heard the crumple of the paper beside me, and groaned internally. Without the news to distract him, my father would be on my case about something or other. "I thought I told you to take that shit out of your lip,"
I glared over at the man beside me. I hated my father, mostly because we were exactly alike. Both completely stubborn, very close-minded, and extremely driven. "Yeah, you sure did," I quipped sarcastically.
My mother slammed a dish down on the counter. "Tony, just leave him. I don't want to hear you two bicker all through dinner."
"Well, Sheila," my father mocked. "I'd have nothing to bicker about if the damn kid just listened to me."
I violently got up from the table, "I can't stick around for a whole night of this, Mom. I'm going out."
Her eyebrows pulled together, and distress washed over her face. "Alright,"
"You're letting him out?!" Tony yelled.
I heard more dishes slam, "Well, he's sixteen years old, I can't exactly control him, can I?" I pulled open the front door and flew down the front steps, toward my truck. There was a reason I got my license the day I turned sixteen; so I could come and go as I pleased. The only time I was usually at home was while I slept. I peeled out of the driveway and just picked a random direction, my foot rather heavy on the gas pedal, no particular destination in mind.