Dad: Are you still at the fucking library
Dad: where is my bag??
Dad: You stupid bitch. The only thing I needed you to do was clean the house, and you couldn’t even do that.
Dad: Your brother may be going off to college, but don’t expect to follow in his footsteps
Dad: Better get better at cleaning, you’re looking at a housekeeping career
Dad: Found it next to the couch.
Dad: Even dead, your fucking mother is still more useful
There are six more, but I wipe my phone screen off with the sheets and dab my face.
Grow up
I sniffle.
I’m used to this shit. It really doesn’t mean much to me anymore...
...usually. The problem is that I agree with him.
I cup my eyes and hide from Ollie’s watchful walls.
Goddammit, I agree with him.
Because he’s right
He’s right
Nothing but a pretty...a face
Just an empty face
Not gonna make it to college
By the time I’m 18, the money will have all dried up
I’ll only get in with a scholarship I’m never gonna get a scholarship
I’m fucked.
I catch my reflection in the mirror on the wall
Blotchy, red
Not even a pretty face
I draw back my hand and slap my cheek hard
It stings, and I can make out a faint handprint
Not even a pretty face.
I do it again and again, three more times until I can feel a gentle hand pull mine away, locking it away in stronger fingers.
He holds me close and I cry into his chest until I can’t, which is about four minutes later.
Ollie still hasn’t let go of my hand, and his arms are around my waist.
“Shhh, it’s okay.”
Get your shit together.
I get my shit together-mostly just trying to suck up all the snot in my nose in a feeble attempt not to look like a blob-fish.
I squeeze him harder and give him a peck on the cheek, snuggling deeper into the covers. Ollie plugs his iPhone in and climbs into bed next to me, turning to watch my face. I find myself unable to meet his eyes.
“Ryan,” he starts.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine. You...” he sighs, and brings a hand up to my red right cheek.
“I’m going to be fine. Better?”
He gives a wan smile.
“I suppose. But why were you doing that?”
Please don’t ask about what I think your’e asking about...I really don’t know why...
“Doing what?”
“Hitting-hurting yourself in the-the face.”
“I-was...facepalming. Aggressively.”
He gives me a look.
“Not even a chuckle? Okay...” I pout.
“Ryan I’m serious. Why would you do that?”
Don’t
“I don’t know...”
Not even a pretty face Not even a pretty face Not even a pretty face
“Not even a pretty face...” I mumble.
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“I don’t-I didn’t-shit.”
“Not even a-are you fucking kidding me?”
“No?”
He shakes his head.
“You are the prettiest face, by far. Out of all the pretty faces, you are the best one yet; yours is more than just a pretty face. It’s perfect. And as a person, you’re even more than that.”
The fuck?
Where...did that come from
I nod, slowly.
“Well...you have a good quality face-also.” He laughs.
“Yeah, but I don’t slap mine.”
I wince.
His good-quality face says ‘sorry’.
I close my eyes.
Neither of us says anything for the next few minutes, until he does.
“Was it your dad?”
His voice sounds so careful.
I just nod.
“I’m so sorry...he sounds like a piece of work.”
I grin.
“That’s to say the least.”
“Anything I can do?”
“You got a license to kill?”
“No, unfortunately.”
He smiles sadly.
“I can get one, though. If you needed it.”
“I’m good. He’s still my dad, after all...patricide isn’t high on my bucket list.”
Ollie frowns.
“I’m not sure if that really counts for anything, anymore.”
“Meh.”
“What did he say?”
I swallow.
”Oh you know, the usual. Cheap shots about my mom, and how she’s more useful dead than I am alive.”
His mouth hangs slightly agape, and I realize what I’d just said. It slipped past like it was totally normal, but only then did his words really hit me.
I’m more useful dead than alive
“Ryan-well obviously, you know that’s not true.”
More useful...
“Right??”
“Hm? Oh yeah, of course.”
Ollie looks really, really worried.
“Yeah, he’s just crazy. And drunk,” I add. As if it might make it seem like he isn’t always like this.
I steer the conversation towards his crazy uncle and his room full of bells, and we debate who patented the gramophone, only to unite once more in our appreciation for Biggie and Cage the Elephant. At some point, I’m too tired to keep talking. I can feel my body lighten and I lean against him, listening to us breathe.
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