Seeing You Seeing Me

She Doesn't Know My Life

I wake up. I stare out my window, and close the tattered curtains. I cover my head with my pillow and roll over.
I let my eyes roll back and I fall asleep for the second time.
The sun doesn't wake me up.
I choose when I wake up.

I roll over and check my phone. I'm usually late for school, so I just decide to walk.
I get up and stretch. I pull open my drawers and look in the mirror. I see me.
My skinny body. My rough looking stomach. The cuts on my wrist.
Sore. None are new.
Bruised over. Scabbed.
My boxers are faded and ripped.
I slip on a pair of jeans and a quick t-shirt.
I hear the TV blaring.
I comb through my hair with my hands and walk towards the sound, coming from the living room.
My dad. Sprawled out, arms dangling off the sides of the couch.
Snoring loudly, his mouth drooped open.
A used cigar lying on the rug covering the tile floor.
Bottles and beer cans litter the coffee table and the floor.
I step on a crinkled can in front of me. I stare at my dad.

My mother is sitting at the table, her hands wrapped around a cup of coffee.
She is staring out the big window, thinking.
"You're late."
"I know. Why don't you kick my ass?"
She stayed silent.
"You don't listen to me. Or your dad."
"Dad's always passed out, drunk, or high."
"You love your dad, Brent."
"I never said I didn't."

We stay silent.
It's quiet as I sit next to her at the table.

"You know I can't stay here forever. I can't do this anymore," she says.
I nod. "Yeah, I get it."
"I mean, I love you Brent, but you know this isn't gonna work for me. Maybe we could get up. Take your dad's old convertible and ride away. We could go up to Montana and live with your Aunt Shirley and Meg."
"I gotta get to school."
"Have you been cutting?" She asks me.
"No."
She grabs my arm and pushes back my shirt sleeve. She examines the red lines on my arm.
I grab my arm back and cover it up.
"Those are old. It's fine," I answer.
She grabs her head and takes a sip of her coffee.