FicWad

Every nerve in my body is doing an amazingly energetic dance as I struggle to get ready for school in the morning. I'm deathly afraid of spurring my father's anger on by lagging behind and making him late for work.


I don't think much about my outfit, just a band tee and some form-fitting jeans. I dress like any normal student does, I suppose. Before leaving, I kneel to the floor and pick up the eyeliner I accidentally dropped. I couldn't go a day without it if I tried. I just feel so bare and exposed whenever I don't wear it. Like anyone and everyone -especially the people I despise- can see what I have to offer. As if all of my quirks and idiosyncrasies are on display.


I couldn't bear the thought of having the world at close proximity. I know that if people could truly peer into my mind, they'd immediately reject me as a whole. I'd be ripped apart by comments and sneers. I don't think I could handle that. No, fuck that. I know I couldn't handle that.


Eyeliner's just a cover up, or a costume, if you prefer. I wear it to block the truth and hide the shattered pieces away.


"FRANK! Come here right now!" I hear my dad scream from downstairs. I take that as my cue to book it and so I jog down the steps and pray he won't mention how this morning is the fifth time this month I've wasted his time.


The car ride to school is awkward and chock full of angry thoughts. All of which are directed at me. I can't help but gently stroke the slashes on my arm through the fabric of my hoodie and fantasize about the moment I'll get to make more.


All of my classes jet by so quickly I'm hardly able to keep up. I've never minded school before, because it's always been my playground. I can pretend for eight hours straight that I'm a normal kid with the world's greatest parents and I can eat a meal without a lecture on the dangers of being a vegetarian. Everything is fine, and simple, and hardly ever hindering. My time isn't being wasted in a bedroom with little-to-no light, and I have the chance to completely lose myself in my assignments.


Granted, all of this happens in my head. But the opportunities are all there, and I'm never anyone's main concern, so I'm finally left alone and un-bothered.


The end of the school day brings on a wave of dread as I dig my hands deeper into my pockets and climb onto the bus. My church's youth service is tonight and I can already hear the immaturity start to concoct and boil over.


My parents' excuse for sending me every week is that I need more fellowship and a closer relationship with God. Personally, I see this as their way of controlling the social aspect of my life. Everything I do, or want to do, has to be scheduled around church events and services. I'm never allowed to skip a sermon for time with a friend, and they'd honestly prefer it if I went with a dazzling smile and a mouth full of praise.


When the bus lets off in front of my house, I can't help but shudder uncomfortably at the prospect of another kid-induced migrane. The teens who attend are nothing but little kids, with dramatic attitudes and feisty personalities. I've never held such rotten disgust for a group of people in my life.


"Frankie, is that you?" my mom calls from the kitchen. Given that church is tonight, she's gotten around to cooking dinner a few hours earlier than usual. I smell a strong tomato sauce coming from the bubbling pot on the stovetop and thank whatever force is out there that she's making something I can eat.


"Yeah. Need anything?" I ask apprehensively. The last thing I want right now is to be given a task that would prevent me from spending as much time away from her as possible.


"Not right this second, but when you're finished with your homework I want you to come down here and clean off the table so we can all eat together." she states. My jaw goes slack and I can feel my fists start to involuntarily ball up. A 'Family Dinner' most always ends in disaster, and she knows it. Her constant need to drag everyone away from their comfort zones is a raging example of how inconsiderate she truly is.


"Whatever..." I mutter before turning away and walking to my room. She heaves a considerably loud sigh before tending to the spaghetti once again.


I open the door and am instantly stricken with the need to do something creative. The feeling has been a stranger -or at least a very distant friend- for quite a while, so when it shows its face unexpectedly, I greet it with a warm smile.


Without giving it any heavy planning, I reach for my sketch book hidden beneath a mountain of comic books and I start to draw the very things I feel need to be on that paper. I don't stop to hold it back and search for mistakes until I'm nearly halfway through. When I do, all I can see is an abandoned two-story home with darkened shades. The detail I added to the structure's corners and roof give the picture a deliciously morbid appearance, and I sit the book down with a content feeling about me. The spontaneity has disappeared and I'm once again left to mope until I'm called down for dinner.


About a half hour later, I can distinctly hear my mother's voice start to gripe with my father's about how upset she is that I don't listen to a word she says. "He doesn't respect me, Carl! I'm the mother! What I say goes!" she snarls. I can't help but to roll my eyes before shifting off of the side of the bed and making my way to the door.


"I'm here, sorry. Just had a lot of Grammar." I say apologetically. Truth be told, I've had my English courses finished since the first semester of last year. I just don't expect them to really remember my school schedule, so mentioning random classes here and there has never triggered any curiosity.


"Okay, well go ahead and clean it off with this," she says, handing me a disinfectant wipe, "after your dad has cleared away his things and put them somewhere else." I wait quietly for my dad to stack his hunting magazines, reading glasses, Bible and other belongings into the thick wire basket he's holding, so I can do my job and step out of my mother's hair.


"Linda, where do you want this?" my dad says with a defeated sigh. She directs him over to our junk/laundry room before opening the oven to pull out the toast. I get to work wiping down, and once I'm finished, leave for the bathroom to wash the chemicals off of my hands.


"Dinner's ready!" my dad yells, although I heard it announced three times already. I grab a plate and receive an exasperated scoff from someone as I meticulously pick out a fork. After moving on to the pots and pans, I shovel a decent portion onto my plate and trudge over to the recently-cleaned table.


Of course, five minutes in and the fighting begins. I just scoot back and focus on making my food disappear. That way, they have nothing to complain about when I excuse myself to leave.


By the time I've scarfed it down, it's nearly time to leave. I make another trip to my room to grab a pair of shoes, and then announce to my mom that I'll be waiting for her in the car.


It's gotten to the point where I've lost the will to object. They're fully aware of how much I dislike being badgered by whiny children, but that doesn't stop them from making the trip out there. "It's for your benefit, Franklin." is their favorite phrase. Finally, after months of arguing, I decided I'd rather eat glass than hear them make that pointless statement again.


I only had to wait a few moments before my mother was coming through the door and locking it behind her. She shot me a staged smile and fumbled with her keys. As she sat in, she slid the car key into the ignition and started it. The soft hum of the engine brought me a step closer to peace, and I started to take deep breaths in preparation for the inevitable stress.


"You'll have to ride the church van home, because your father and I have to work on our taxes, so we won't be able to pick you back up." she said with finality. I simply nodded and propped my head against the passenger window. She hates when I do this, because she's convinced herself I do it to get away from her. I wonder if she'd take offence, or just boast if I ever told her she was right.


The ride is far too short and much before I'm ready, I'm stepping out and respectfully waving at the blue car that's driving away.


I'd like to think that they all plan it. That it's their secret performance to suddenly increase their volume the second my presence is made known. It sure as hell seems like it as I wade through the rowdy kids and over to a seat near the back. I'm greeted by few, and bothered by many. At one point, the youth coordinator comes over to try and make me smile -a tradition he's found funny since the first day of his employment at this church. As usual, I frown and turn my head in ignorance. He accepts the challenge and starts to mercilessly call my name until I'm forced to speak at a volume that shows my anger.


"FrankFrankFrankFrankFrankFrankFrank???" he says cheerfully. I can hear the blood pounding in my ears, and I'm gravely afraid to look him directly in the eyes, because at any moment I think I'd be able to incinerate the entire building with a glance.


"What is it, Matt?" I ask with an annoyed expression. The 26-year-old looks at me with affection and speaks through a toothy grin. "Jesus loves you." he whispers. I fight the urge to gag at his intimate message, and appropriately feel my stomach lurch as the creepy vibe this guy gives only starts to intensify.


Finally, he scampers away and I'm thankfully left to suffer in silence once again. The music starts; names are shouted; offering is taken up and praise and worship commences. I stare blankly at the people brave enough to raise their hands in adoration. Maybe one day I'll understand how lifting your hands to a spirit could bring such deliverance.


Tongues are being spoken, confessions and testimonies are said through tear-streaked throats. I absent-mindedly clap along with the others at every passing story. The intensity of this service has more than worn me out, and I feel almost as if my very soul wishes to be like the others for a moment in time.


What would it be like to have such faith? I can faintly remember being this way when I was younger, but the feeling is long gone and shows no sign of returning.


As the sermon is coming to an end, I briefly lock eyes with a newcomer and give them a sympathetic grimace. They're in for a wild treat. Soon enough, these members will have them brainwashed and converted in no time at all.


A final prayer is spoken and the solemn promise of God's love is echoing inside my chasm of a mind. Where did my energy go? My fire? I've lost it and I'm only a shell of a person compared to these kids. Of course, my envy is short-lived as the lights are switched and the childish noises carry on. Rants and raves of hip hop and classroom drama are practically shouted from all across the room, and I feel a moment away from a panic attack. My chest tightens, and I struggle to breathe. I eventually just surrender and hold my breath until my lungs are on the verge of exploding. Slowly, I suck air in and steady myself from falling over. No one seems to notice my faint behavior, and I'm in no hurry to bring it to the crowd's attention.


When 8:30 comes around, it's time to leave. Girls and boys alike pile into the van and continue the pointless banter that had started inside. I scooted to the very corner next to the window and started to unwrap my earphones. I instantly felt sanity enter my mind as the waves of bass and guitar started to gush into my thoughts. The thick, pleasing music trickled and washed over me, repairing my mind and putting me back where I need to be. I'm the second-to-last stop on this ride, and the twists and turns of these country roads are nearly more than I can stand, but my ipod brings me to a place where I'm virtually indestructible.


Five, ten minutes go by and I pride myself in being able to block away the noise. I'm silently drumming my fingers against my folded up knee, while noticing whatever constellations I can. Right as I find Orion's Belt, my music stops and I'm thrown for a loop.


I frantically reach into my lap for one of my only sources of happiness and nearly cry out in frustration when I find the battery to be dead. Anger runs through me and I start to feel a red hot mask over my face as I grind my teeth and focus on trying not to cry. It seems so incredibly juvenile to waste tears over something so small, but even the most obvious logic can't hold back the emotions I've tried so desperately to bottle up today.


A few embarrassing tears stream from the corner of my eye and I work to nonchalantly catch and wipe away each one before anyone in this loaded vehicle notices.


I take a quick look around and observe the friends who've chosen to sit with friends, and the social butterflies that will sit with anyone. They all seem so content with the people they're surrounded by, and for a moment I wonder how the fuck I managed to land having a razor blade as my only companion.