All through lunch, he didn't talk but there was just something about the way he ran his fingers through his black semi-short hair and anxiously tugged at his too-tight black T-shirt that kept me fo...
The best day I can have, except one spent out of my house.
A good day to steal.
Not from stores or anything illegal like that.
No, just a nice, new, cellophane-wrapped pack of glorious cigarettes. I could get them from some of my older friends but that doesn't give me the same satisfaction as taking some from the many cartons my chain-smoking father goes through.
Why do I smoke?
I don't feel addicted. I only smoke a few times a month... but I probably am. It helps me deal with my shitty house. My shitty parents. My shitty life.
One of the few friends I have takes care of me more than any parent, especially mine, could. He is always there when I call him for help. Any hour of the night or day. I feel horrible about being so dependant upon another person. He has his own problems and I don't want to burden him with mine.
So when I can't get out to my car and get away to his house or anywhere else, I try to distract myself from my 'life' and mostly stay in my room watching music videos. If I have already smoked my stolen cigs. sometimes I... hurt myself... sometimes I drink... I know it's not healthy but don't judge me. You don't know until you live like I do for as long as I have.
Gerard knows it isn't my fault but he still doesn't like it when I do any of these things to myself. Except smoking. He loves that because I started him doing it, not intentionally of course, I would never purposefully start him on such a bad habit. But smoking around him at my house one day he just asked if he could try a few puffs and ever since... well maybe we'll revisit that later.
So as I sit here, on my bed near my open window, I think about the stress I need to rid myself of... I walk over to my hiding spot, grabbing the crumpled pack of Marlboro Reds and my few matches. I reclaim my spot on the bed from the cat and light a match. Staring at the newly created flame for a moment, I lean toward the window, trying to keep the smell out of my room as I light my tasty chemically-enhanced friend. Taking a deep drag, I blow smoke rings into the darkness of my room. After I finish and stub out the last of my cig. in the makeshift wooden ashtray and throw it out the window, I get up to go get a drink. I walk downstairs to see my sister doing dishes and my parents lounging around watching T.V.---the usual. My dad immediatly gets up off the couch looking at me, his face eminant with the same emotion that has been there since I can remember--fury.
"Why didn't you clean the house today!?!"
I looked around at the newly vacuumed floors, dusted cabinets and tables, baskets full of clean laundry, and hear the hum of the running washer and dryer.
"I did clean, I vacuumed ... and dusted..."
"THE FUCK YOU DID!"
"Ok well how can I do it better?" I was slowly backing away, so afraid of my dad when he gets like this. . .
"You are supposed to do what we asked you to when we are gone," he said trying to control anger in his voice, "and you screw it up! You're worthless! You will NEVER amount to anything!"
The hand started to rise and I knew what was coming next. I stood up to take it and prepared myself for the familiar pain. A fist hit my shoulder and my jaw. I felt against the table cutting my arm against a letter opener and fell to the floor. I crawled toward the kitchen but was pulled up, pushed agaisnst the counter, and hit again; this time painfully in the ribs. I knew the bruises would be big this time because he was particularly vengeful tonight.
"Dad. . . please. . . " I begged.
He calmly went to sit on the couch and continued watching T.V. like nothing had ever happened. I barely made it to the bathroom before I leaned over the toilet and threw up from the severe pain I was in. After I finally stopped, I saw blood drenching the sleeve of my sweatshirt where letter opener cut me. I grabbed some gauze and band-aids truing, as best as I could, to cover it up and stop the bleeding.
---Ok, now for the other pain---
I grab a bottle of vodka, a carton of orange juice, and a glass and head upstairs. Once behind the 'safety' of my door, I pour half and half of the liquids into the glass and start to drink. I know when I get drunk and call Gerard later, I'll be sick with myself for getting so wasted; but, it is the only way I have to escape the pain. I light a cigarette as angry tears silently roll down my cheeks. I shake the match to put it out and stare at the glowing red tip before I slowly lower it toward my wrist. As it touches the flesh, I take a deep drag off of my cig. so I don't make noise as it sears my flesh. I couldn't feel the pain by the third or fourth time I repeated this process because I had about three more screwdrivers by then. The wounds were bledding freely but I was detatched and didn't notice. I reached for the phone and the tears began to flow strongly.
I got to the phone just in time.
"Hello?" I said in a sleepy, raspy, whisper.
"G--Gee." She said, through sobs.
/Even though I already know damn well what is wrong, it has happened enough times before for me to know./
"I'm... sorry..." /She is crying so hard. It must have been especially rough tonight./
"It's ok, you don't have to be sorry..."
"You know what?" /So slurred./
"It h-happened again."
"I'm such a fuck-up."
"No, you are not!"
"Why do you hang out with me? Am I your charity case? Is that why you help me?"
"You are not my charity case! I just want to help you so I can keep you with me."
"I know, but still..."
"But still nothing."
/Maybe I should get her mind off this topic/
"So I heard there is going to be a new student at school tomorrow..."
"Yup! His name is ... uhm ... I don't remember but my girlfriend's friends know him and they say he's not bad."
/She sounds really sleepy. . . and by all means she should be, its 12:23AM/
"You sound tired. Get a good night sleep and I'll see you at school tomorrow. Be good ok?"
"I'll. .. I'll try . . . goodnight... love ya. . ."
My stomach churned with worry all night wondering how bad her pain would be tomorrow.
I got up this morning with the best headache ever. Obviously I like pain to say that.... Jesus I am fucked up . . . anyway . . . I get ready for school grudgingly, trying to stay home but not wanting to confront my father again. The long, purplish bruises are sore and swollen this morning as I covered the visible ones with make-up, lifting up my shirt to look at the giant one on my ribs.
/It even hurts when I fucking breathe./
It doesn't matter, no one ever notices. I am always in a mask in public: "Happy Emo Alyson" does the trick and doesn't make people worry. Gerard is the only one who knows the whole truth about my dad and the bad habits I have. Another thing I fucked-up on. I love Gerard. Love. And I have for a long time. Ever since, that time in second grade when I sat at his table for fingerpainting every day. I got to talk to him a lot. Yeah, pathetic I know. I can never tell him though. His beautiful, smart, skinny Regina is all he ever needs. She is everything he wants and I'm not.
I get in my beaten up old Cadillac with my sister and brother and drive to school.
/Damn, I shouldn't have smoked the rest of my pack last night. I need one now.../
I remembered getting up this morning and seeing my bloody arms, one from burning, one from the letter opener cut ripping open in my sleep. My sister standing over me, looking horrified.
"Go away, Michelle."
She just brought me a wet washcloth and some bandages without saying a word. I'm such a dick sometimes.
We arrived at school late as usual which was good because I didn't have to see Gee practically making out with Regina in homeroom or hear the bells ringing; both would aggravate my hangover headache.
The morning went without incident until lunch. I sat down with the usual crew: Gerard//