FicWad

I stumble through the doorway, nearly face-planting on the wooden floor just as soon as I'm inside. I barely keep from falling before making my way down the hall and over to the kitchen. No one's home yet, because my mother's gotten herself a part-time job down at the courthouse, and Tuesday is a working day for her. This pretty much gives me the freedom to roam and do as I choose until right before seven, which is when my parents'll be home and nearly ready to drive to church.


Being the teenager that I am, my first instinct is to raid the refrigerator for whatever looks edible. Once I've found myself content with a sandwich and two cans of Pepsi, I head upstairs for my room in search of some much-needed relaxation. As I tread the stairs, it occurs to me how truly quiet things are without my iPod to comfort me. The silence is deafening in that it's created a sort of black hole. One that sucks up and destroys every sound in its path, making damn sure I'm left to wallow in my paranoia.


I make it to my room and quickly close and lock the door. After sitting my plate and cans at the foot of my bed, I reach for my remote which has been left virtually untouched since two months prior. As I turn on my dust-covered TV, I hit the guide button in search of a show worth watching. After a few minutes, I settle on some lame-ass adaptation of Punked and start on my sandwich, content with what the fridge had to offer.


Once I'm finished eating, I decide to look through my closet for something I haven't worn for a while. It seems everyday I pick some shitty excuse for an outfit and I'm on my way. Tonight, I intend to change that. I can hardly believe the thought has come to mind, but I really don't feel like looking frumpy anymore. I want to look good.


Ten minutes into my search, I discover an old pair of faded, grey, skinny jeans I haven't touched in over a year. With a prayer and some tugging, I manage to fit into them, and decide they're worth keeping. I begin to hum a tuneless song as I handle every garment in hope of finding something I don't completely hate. Another few moments pass by when I suddenly find an old hoodie of mine, half-covered in fuzz but still more than appealing in comparison to what I've been wearing. It's a dark navy with intentional bleach stains on the sleeves. I tug my present hoodie off and throw it over in the hamper up against the wall before slipping the recently found one over my head and pulling the bunched up fabric down until it's a perfect fit. I step a few feet to the right and look in the mirror. I decide it's better than before, and resume my seat in front of the television, absently watching the shit MTV has to offer without complaint.


"Frank!" I hear as soon as my mother comes through the door. She's in another one of her moods again, where all she wants to do is check up on me; make sure I'm home and safe. I call out to her, hoping that's all she wants. Regrettably, it's not.


"Honey? I need you to change the clothes from the washer into the dryer and turn it on. We're going to be running late unless you step on it." she says in a panicked shriek as she's suddenly devoted all of her energy into getting presentable for the people we'll see tonight. After looking in the mirror one last time and smoothing back my hair with limited enthusiasm, I'm off to the laundry room.


After I'm finished, I try to make another escape to my room, but of course discover I'm not that lucky. "Sweetie? Do you mind to watch what's on the stove while I'm upstairs spraying my hair?" my mother asks once again. It's not so much because she needs my help that I'm bothered. It's more so the tone in which she asks. The type of pitch where you just know that what's being asked of you is more mandatory than you'd like to think. I trudge to the kitchen and keep an eye on the hot pan. For a moment I'm intrigued with the way the tiny zips of heat are taking over each small piece of beef and every pepper; making sure nothing goes un-cooked. Soon, everything has come down to a steady simmer, so I adjust the eye to the lowest setting and look out the window into the backyard.


"Mom?" I call out, almost surprised with how deep my voice has started to sound.


"Yeah?" she asks, only a few feet away at this point and sporting the world's poofiest head of hair.


"Why are the Jenkins' moving?" I ask her with genuine interest.


"I have no idea, actually. Something to do with a failed loan from the bank, I think." she answers as if it's a normal thing to mention in passing. I shrug after a moment and look away from the ending of their lives as they know it. Within minutes, the food is plated and sitting on the table, waiting to be eaten by us all. My dad comes through the door in his work attire with a somber expression.


"Linda? I think I'll just stay in tonight. You take Frank, okay?" he says, his voice low and quiet. My mother simply nods and hands him his plate and fork, a caring smile crossing her face as she does so. I'd probably be more touched had he consented to letting me stay in as well.


"Hurry up and eat, Frank. We have to leave in the next ten minutes or we'll miss Worship." she says, shoveling the food down her throat and ruining her off-red lipstick. I pick around at the stir fry, careful to only fork the vegetables before sticking them in my mouth and swallowing. They're much too salty for my enjoyment, so I take my plate in the other room and shovel the majority of it back into the skillet, careful not to let them see, else they lecture me to kingdom come about wasting what the Lord has provided.


"I think I'll just go sit out in the car, okay?" I say to my mom in the other room, her keys in one hand and a bottle of water in the other. She mumbles something with food in her mouth, so I take it as a yes and leave through the porch door.


Nearly half an hour later and worship's just finished for the evening. Everyone is settling down, waiting for service to begin. I start to dread the sound of my pastor's voice. His drawl has this twang to it that I'd rather not hear. Ever. It makes me want to cringe and then send him an e-mail on how unprofessional it is to be illiterate when leading a congregation.


Forty five minutes into his sermon and I catch myself dozing off. It'll be hell to pay if my mother catches me though, so I step out to the bathroom in hope of waking myself up with some water. What I didn't expect to see sitting quietly by the water fountain was none other than the pastor's son himself, eyes latched onto his cell phone's screen.


"'Evening, Frank." Matthew says under his breath. I can easily tell he's being far from genuine, but that doesn't bother me too much so I side step him and walk over to the men's restroom. After wetting a paper towel and dabbing it over my face, I start to feel a little more alive and like maybe, just maybe I can make it through this service without shooting myself or someone else. When I come back out, Matthew is still standing in the exact spot I left him in, only this time his phone's been put back in his pocket, and in its place is a Bible.


"You doing your listening from all the way out here?" I dare to ask, knowing full well that the precious preacher's kid is avoiding his daddy's words of wisdom.


"Yes." Matthew says with a dignified way about him. One that makes me want to crush the life out of his kind.


"I'll bet you're learning a lot, aren't you." I say, once again tempting him to show me that he's actually human after all.


"Watch yourself, Frankie. You wouldn't want to get in trouble, would you?" Matthew says with a toothy grin. I get the sudden urge to scalp him, but soon it passes and I settle with rolling my eyes before entering the sanctuary once again. This time, a bit of hope has come to rest on my shoulders because the ending prayer is being prayed to God, and I'm just in time for it to be finished with, too.


After it's all over, my mother turns to the pew I'm in, oblivious to my temporary absence. "So, did you have a good time?" she asks, her eyes full of happy tears and expectations I'll never meet.


"Sure." I say as I see her false grin start to quiver and eventually disappear.


After having to wait nearly twice as long as usual, my mother's ready to leave and so we walk to the car. On the way home, she tries to discuss what her favorite part of tonight's service was, but I tune her out, eventually causing her sudden need for communication to evaporate. I'm thankful.


Twenty minutes later, I'm up in my room. The night doesn't feel as young as it should, but I'm not quite ready to sleep yet. I hear arguing coming from my parents' bedroom. I'm not worried like I was when I was smaller, though. I'm only annoyed. Annoyed that they couldn't go a fucking day without bickering like kids themselves.


"And you! All you can do correctly is boss us all around! I thought you didn't want to turn into your dad, Linda! You're doing a darn good job of it!" I hear my father scream, though it's obvious he's in close proximity to my mother anyway. Normally I try not to take sides, even in my mind. But in this case, it's obvious who's right. My mom's a spitting image of my grandpa; which would be part of the reason why I have very little desire to visit him, even in his old age.


"Don't. You. DARE! How could you..." but she's suddenly cut off by that incessant wailing I just love so much. Her exaggerated crying serves as my cue to get to bed. I don't need this bullshit. It's bad enough I have to listen to it during the day.


I hear heavy stomping down the hallway, followed by the slamming of a door. "Linda! You get back here! NOW!" my dad says, proving that for whatever reason he's grown a pair.


"No, Carl. If you're going to treat me like I'm replaceable, then that's what I'll be. Replaceable!" my mother calls from already down the steps. She exits the front door with a loud slam and leaves my father to grumble himself to sleep. We both know she'll be back within the hour, but it's still enough drama to stir up the worst of feelings among family.


I notice how tense I've become just in these last few minutes. My heart is pounding like it does when I'm scared, and my hands have clamped up into tight fists. I won't pretend to know what I do and don't deserve, but I'm convinced it can't possibly be this. It shouldn't have to be this way, and their screaming shouldn't have to suffice as a lullaby.


I sift through the mounds of paper and miscellaneous junk on my bedside table before finding the one thing I want most. I lift up my sleeve and plunge the corner of my knife's blade like so, waiting for the first tiny pool of blood to extinguish what's left of my stress. Gently, I rake it across, leaving small trails of blood to drip down the sides of my arm. It's so relaxing to watch the striking red flow over my very pale, white arm. I know I enjoy this more than one should, but I can't bother to care at a time like this. After taking a few labored breaths, I bring myself to cut again. And again. And again. Until there are four long slashes splayed horizontally on my arm. The minor sting is nothing in comparison to what my heart is going through. The sounds of my childhood digging themselves up and filling my ears; spurring all sorts of unpleasant memories from the depths of my mind. I'd almost prefer that black hole of silence which haunted the halls this afternoon. At least then there'd be no reason to mourn.