cracked • lashton [v slow updates]

three - luke

my parents don't believe in physical violence. i've never been shaken, smacked, or spanked. they think it's for poor people ("animals," in my dad's words).

they don't believe in affection, either. i've always believed they'd make excellent robots. when i was little, i pretended they actually were robots. i imagined they'd landed their spaceship somewhere just outside of town, and they'd stumbled upon a baby me wrapped in blankets and tucked in a basket on the side of the road.

my mother would say, in perfect automation, "look what i found, andrew. it's some kind of earth baby. what should we do?"

my dad would respond, just as robotically, "we should take it, elizabeth. we can raise it as our own. it will teach us how to be human."

my alien fantasy doesn't work, though, because i have my mother's blue eyes and the rest of my looks like my dad. tall, yet scrawny, blond hair. my dad is a plain, preppy-looking guy, and thanks to him, so am i. my two older brothers look more like mom's side, having the strong and muscular build of her brother. they were the lucky ones. they've long moved out and have real jobs and families of their own. jack and ben never visit, making it clear they want nothing to do with our parents. or me.

i have never seen my parents hug or kiss, or even shake hands for that matter. they just exisit in our big, five bedroom, three-and-a-half-bath house, with its granite countertops and wallpapered walls. we live seperate lives in this house, in seperate rooms, doing seperate things. except they are always together, and i am always alone. my parents like to sit together in the family room and read- my father in the overstuffed antique chair and my mother on the sofa that costs more than a year of university.

how do i know that the sofa was eleven thousand dollars? when i was twelve, i tried to be a reader. i thought it would make my parents realize that i existed. you know, give us something to talk about together. i had gotten a book out of the school library the day before, and when my parents were out shopping i took my chance to start reading. i could be ready to show off my brilliance at lunch.

i grabbed a can of coke and my book, even though i knew my mother's cardinal rule: no eating or drinking in any other rooms in the house, except the kitchen or dining room. she says people are meant to eat at tables like civilized human beings, and the people who eat hunched over their coffee tables are as bad as sewer rats.

i sat down on the sofa, cracked open my book, and then the can of pop. after two sips i got lost in the story, and the coke slipped out of my hand. the fizzy brown liquid dribbled out, and of course the sofa was a cream colour.

my mother arrived home just as i jumped up and was trying to blot the puddle with my shirt hem, which only made the stain spread. my mom screamed.

like i said, my parents don't do physical violence; they don't need to. they've mastered verbal violence.

with enough volume to make me drop the can of coke again, splashing more of the brown liquid on the sofa, she yelled, "what are you doing, luke? why are you in here? with pop? look what you've done, you. . . you monster! you monster. this sofa cost your father and i eleven thousand dollars. eleven thousand dollars! do you even know hoeuch money that is? get out! get out! get out!"

my mother was on the phone with the upholstery cleaners within two seconds, explaining how her monster of a son got pop all over her sofa, and did they know it was an eleven thousand dollar sofa, and how fast could they get here, and how sweet they were for coming right away, and on and on and on. they got the stains out.

i don't read anymore, unless i have to for school. i don't go in the family room anymore either. i stay in my room and my parents stay in the family room. it all works out for us.

they don't bug me except to ensure my grades are "top notch" (my dad's words). he likes to say that a boy with my upbringing, my impeccable genes, my social status, should have top-notch grades. no excuses. especially excuses that show weakness. like sickness or a headache, or when your face gets ground into a pile of tiny stones and you pee your pants in front of the whole second grade playground. or when that same asshole pushes your face into the bathroom tile and holds it there, calling you lucy in front of four other guys, while you're trying to piss in the urinal right before your math final.

nope, they take no excuses for not not getting top-notch grades, excuses that show weakness.

i am weak.

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a/n: can we take a minute to appreciate 5sos' cover of no roots in the live lounge anD ASHTON IN IT (and everyone else like it's such a good cover bye)