Blacks, Grays & Blues

1: Weekends

1: Weekends

"Take me to another place,
take me to another land
Make me forget all that hurts me,
let me understand your plan"

My heavy eyelids agree to part.

. . .

Vision attempts to focus.

. . .

The two words barely register: Get Up.

. . .

Then the fuzz subsides. Tense.

I scramble from the ground to acknowledge my dad, dropping my head immediately. Two fingers press my temple, inflicting a slight pain as they jeer my head down further. "What are you?" he asks.

I frown. This is the second time. I run through many answers, but they all seem stupid and shameful. Maybe he wants me to say something like that, but ". . . I don't know," I decide. My stomach caves in. "I—" I gasp. Another deep blow and my legs wobble, I staggering towards him.

I try to collect myself, backing away, but he grabs my throat. "Zachary," he says, "what're you?" I hold onto his hands and try to get them off for air. He wrings my neck forward only to slam it into the wall, all the while watching my eyes. Seeing them is the worst part, I almost get carried away. Pain drips through the back of my head and forewarns a future headache.

When he let's go, I drop to the floor. Nausea consumes me, my head pulsing like a brick, vision a blur once more. The same sick feeling pangs out like oil in my heart. I suppress it. I just need to go along until he's done. "Tell me next time. The house," he assigns. That one buzzes me in the arm like a taser. I take a deep breath, feeling my heart surging from his instruction. He's done with me.

I stay sat for a while. Ignoring the prickling on my back. Numbing the petitions bubbling in my head. Burning my thoughts out, quickly, easily. Except: what am I? I hold onto that because dad is going to ask me again.

It's a great strain to stand, my legs still shaky and my stomach fighting the action with sharp pinches. But it's certainly bearable. I should've woken up earlier. I trudge over to the closet, pick out a yellow duster and broom, and steadily make my way around the house. It's not very dirty, just some dust. So I dust down the chandelier, the fan, some wooden furniture. Then I get lost in the music of it. I start sweeping next. From the dining room, between the chairs, and under the table; to the living room, moving the couple sofas just out of habit; briefly in the bathroom; my room, my brother's. I sweep almost every corner. Then back into the bathroom with bleach and soap to scrub down the sink, toilet, and bathtub. That is the hardest part, cleaning the bathroom.

I wash the few dishes in the sink then tie the large, black trash bag to take out. My own breath is a cloud of smoke in the chilly weather. I smile because of it and pretend I have a cigarette between my fingers, taking a deep swig. Then I let it out, coughing like they do on TV when someone smokes for the first time.  I don't think I'd cough like that, but I'll never smoke anyway.

I hustle back inside just as Dad exits his room.

Jeans and a black jacket.

His eyes dully gloss me over.

Up.

Down.

He walks past me.

The door opens.

Then closes.

Great. I start cleaning his room, rather quickly. After a while, I compel myself towards the kitchen, treading as carefully as I can over the wet floor I've just mopped. The refrigerator is mostly empty, save vegetables and meats and a . . . I chug the water, downing the majority of it in a few seconds. Sigh. A few more minutes touching things up before I return to my usual spot by the wall. I slide down the wall and close my eyes. Being elsewhere always presented itself, but that proved over multiple gambles to be stupid, especially if I fell asleep . . .