My knee buckles as I release it from the green coating of the car. The vehicle refuses to carve in a dent as it sits there groggily, eying my feeble attempt. Ceasing to be mocked, I pick up the wooden bat that’s lying in between my legs and swing down into the door until I’ve made four dents. Then in my retaliation, I smash the windows and throw the bat over the railing. The blaring sirens steal the air but I shrug it aside as I grab the spray paint that’s been sitting in my other hand and swish it around the green paint. Feeling complacent, I toss the spray paint can over the railing as if I’m throwing it toward the stars. I shake back my disheveled bob cut as if I’ve just taken a shower and rake through it with my hands, then I stand tipsy close by the railing, and stare into the hot dry evening.
I’m currently standing on top of the Palvalla parking garage. Why did I come here? My head is buzzing with a billion vitriolic thoughts and yet at the same time, I’m distracted by the warm orange glow enveloping Camelback Mountain.
The city sinks right beneath me, slated by the Arizona sun, and a silky wind starts to frolic around my body. I smirk. Of course, this is the only place that I can hide when I get angry, depressed, or hostile in any type of way. Life seems to make sense up here as if everything becomes elucidated as soon as I reach this crummy old parking garage. It’s as if I'm standing in my own little world.
The blaring has stopped, and somehow my thought has veered into focus again. My eyes blink over the sun and moon tattoo resting above my cheekbones. On the opposite cheekbone, there's a scrawled tattoo of a cluster of stars. As for my wrist, there is an inverted cross of Saint Peter. I scowl.
Sorry if I come across as a bit snarky… well, snarkier than usual. My mom’s being a bitch. I’ve just got off an argument with her about who I should date and what I should put on my body as if that’s any of her business. I thought I could open up to her when I told her that I had feelings for Georgia and that I’ve been bi since I was seven. But it went in one ear and out the other because she ended up villainizing me anyway.
I guess the incriminating part was that Georgia was there too. Georgia was there when my mom threatened to take away my car keys. Georgia was there when mom literally threatened to lock me in the house and send me to rehab. Georgia was even there even when I was flipping two middle fingers and slamming the door shut in my mom's face. Now I’m here, back to the irrevocable silence of internal fury.
Yeah, I’m bi, which isn’t really saying much when you think about it. Like what’s the big deal? We’re all creatures, we’ve all got genitals, and we all love. And don’t give me the “but people blah blah blah” bs talk because honestly, when have people ever judged right. About two thousand years ago they killed a Jewish man because they had misinterpreted their scriptures. Or at least that's what's been claimed. Like really. People will say whatever they want to make themselves feel better but at the end of the day it doesn’t change who I am, so get the fuck over it.
Another thing about my mother that I can’t stand is that she didn't even bother to name me right. We originally lived in Nevada before here, and when I was a baby I might’ve said ka-kow as my first words but for some reason, my mother heard Caracao and decided to name me that instead. In retrospect, it’s so embarrassing, and in reality, it’s still embarrassing.
My mother is Japanese and works as a physician full time, and my dad is German and he’s a doctor as well, but he’s currently not in town. They try to keep me tight-nit, boxed, clean, and law-abiding but as of late I've been quite aberrant on those expectations.
The worst part about my mom's purity act is that I know she’s been sleeping with other men on days that I’ve pretended to go to school and my dad has been out of the house. I could hear the grunting sounds regurgitating through my room. She has the gall to question my character while she takes the D like a slut.
My scowl traverses into a malicious grin as I glance hungrily at another car. Yeah, I bet she really wouldn’t like those police sirens blaring at her door.
I hear footsteps approaching me. I expect it to be the cops or the civilian whose car I just mutilated.
“Fut you?” the voice says uncertainly.
My worry melts into a foxy grin. It’s Georgia.
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