Tangents

Family Visits

I actually wrote this for a writing contest back in December 2016. Surprisingly, I won in my division and will be going to a writers convention in May 2017. So just an update and sorry if you expected something else.

Flashback: Two months ago

I didn't want to come. I hate visiting, especially people I haven't seen in five years. We pass their house everyday. It's awkward and fake, laughs are too loud, smiles stretched thin and hugs with pats on the back. I throw in a joke, even though I didn't find anything funny. I'm still thinking about my unfinished homework, staying up late and how cold my coffee is now. They're smiling again and I can't help but feel bitterness creep into my heart. I hear the snap of a lighter, the exhale of a smoker and nostalgia stabs me everywhere. Health class taught me that for every six seconds, a person dies from a tobacco related cause. I grind my teeth and take small breaths. I wish I was one. They laugh again, this time about hunting and guns. I listen to the rain and passing cars. They're asking us if we want to come inside. I don't. I enter through death's door anyway. The smell assaults my nose and I swear I'm going to catch a disease. She wants me to take a brownie, I smile and decline expertly. I use my fake excuses to seem casual, my parents would be proud. Another one comes to haunt me, gripping my shoulder commenting on my growth. They moan about how much older they're getting. Not old enough yet though, huh? I keep smiling as they babble about something. I think of what hour it must be, my heart constricts and my eyes burn. I excuse myself to the restroom. I don't have bags, the wrinkles, or the bloodshot eyes. And thank God, I don't have yellow teeth. I'm not one of them. I dodge and crawl to the kitchen. I need fresh air. I hear the click and fizz of a pop can. She's pouring beer into a plastic cup. I almost cringe when she tells a little girl it's apple juice. The little girl reaches for the cup as she raises the cup to her own cracked lips. At least they have the decency to lie. I'm out the door but they're out there and I almost trip trying to run back in. I hate being here. She asks if I want a water, or a pop. I want to tell her I want some apple juice, but I'm trained to be obedient. I decline her offer. They're talking about me now, competing calmly like parents do. Like adults do. My-child-is-better-than-yours talk. I almost throw up. They haven't raised their voices yet. I tuck my hands away, they're cowering like scared dogs. I hear children scream with joy, laughing together. They're smart enough to put them in another room. They're staring at me. They want to know what I'm going to do after school. My mouth turns into a cotton field. I really could use that water. Smile, tell them like you have it perfectly planned out and don't frown when they make an underlying judgement on your decisions. Oh, and smile. Remember you're the perfect daughter, golden child, a parent's dream. Don't screw that up. My arms itch, irritation is crawling on my skin. It's almost time to take a bow. They hug me, smiling and telling us to visit again soon. I hope not. I've escaped, I'm in the car. My dad makes a comment about the fingerprints on the window. What about them? My mom asks. They weren't there before. They weren't there the other day. You know, yesterday? Oh God. I didn't escape. What are you implying? He gives a dry laugh. Who are you texting every evening? No one. Don't tell me that, he screams. I've taken them with me. What is wrong with you? I'm not seeing anyone. I bet it's one of those co-workers of yours, he sneers. Paranoia. A symptom of psychological neurosis. You're so repulsive. I'm so sick of you accusing me of things that I've never done. I don't know what to believe.  It's a war and bombs are going off. Do you think I'm stupid? You're constantly being flirtatious toward everyone you talk to. So who is it? I want them to wreck the car. I'm on the driver's side, let it kill me first. I'm not seeing anyone you overly possessive brute. It's Richard isn't it? It's not anyone, she screams back. He's laughing again. That's not what your phone says. Bitter. Like apple juice. You're unbelievable. I'm unbelievable?  I'm not screwing everyone in Spencer. Death is quick, a swift thing. Like car accidents. 

Present:

It's a haze but I see the white walls. I hear the heart monitor echoing through the room. Evidence of a guilty survivor. A small pinch in my ribs and a numbness in my arm. I make out their shapes. All I feel is grief. They reek of pity. I hate them all. Her eyes are hazy, I think she had too much apple juice. Or my eyesight is failing. They tell me I fell asleep at the wheel. Too much apple juice in my system. More come in the room. Make them leave. I close my eyes and count to ten. They're all I see. Oh and did I mention, that I hate family visits?