Curtain Call [boyxboy]

Curtain Call {16}

                Parent-child relationships were a strange, fragile thing.

                I could remember being about six years old. Saturday mornings, I would come sleepily padding into the living room, and instantly cheer up when I saw my mom on the couch. I run to her, crawl into her lap, and throw my arms around her neck.

                She would smile, and kiss my head, and hug me. We would make pancakes together, and she'd laugh at me when I got batter all over my pajamas, and I would make a pancake especially for her. No doubt it was burnt and tasted like shit, but she would smile and thank me and eat it like it was the best thing she'd ever tasted.

                My father had been my hero at that time. I'd watch him read in the living room, and memorize the title of the book.

                Then I'd sneak into his room when he was busy, and I'd find the book on his nightstand and curl up in the corner trying to read it. I wanted to get to know my dad through the books he cherished.

                Sure, a small boy didn't understand Dracula. And I certainly struggled to read through those books. But this habit of mine continued for years. Even now, I'd sometimes sneak into his room and steal the newest addition to his bookshelf and read it. I would wonder what he thought of it.

                But somewhere along the line, I'd become the "bad child". When I walked into the room in the morning, my mom wouldn't smile and hug me. She'd say good morning if I was lucky.

                And my father was no longer a hero to me. In fact, I found myself disgusted by him a lot of the time. I found myself unable to listen to songs like Perfect by Simple Plan.

                When your own parents couldn't bring themselves to love you, you were forced to love yourself. If you didn't, you would stray down roads you shouldn't.

                So as I grew up, I grew a thick outer shell. I allowed few people in, because how could I rely on anyone when I couldn't even rely on my own mother and father?

                I learned to love myself, even if it was a bitter love. I relied on myself. I clung to my youth, but a part of me had reluctantly grown up far too soon.

                Even now, I wasn't surprised as I left my bedroom without hearing a single word. I left the house, and no one asked where I was going or when I'd be back or who I'd be with or if I needed a ride.

                I just got in my car, shut the door, turned my music up loud, and left.

                There was a freedom that came with disappointing your parents. They essentially gave up trying to keep you in line, and you could come and go as you please.

                One time, I came home after getting high. My shirt no doubt smelled like weed despite trying to disguise the scent. I stripped, showered, and brushed my teeth before staggering into my room, exhausted.

                My mother had come over to me, sniffed me, and left the room. We never spoke of the incident.

                I had never been given a sex talk, or a drug talk, or even really an alcohol talk. But I had sat and listened to my parents talk about homosexuality and where it should be banned. As if who a person loved was more crucial than that person's health and safety.

                I shook these thoughts out of my head as I pulled into Donnie's driveway. Sometimes I found myself wondering about the home lives of others.