I am the Skeleton in the Closet

The Exchange Student

 Not long after prom did Eric come talk to me again. I knew it was coming because, again, my friends told me. After school that day I tried to stay busy. Stay talking to anyone and everyone that would talk. Eventually, he called me out.

"Elise! I need to talk to you." He motioned away from people nodding his head back.

"No." I shorted. Didn't think I had to say it by this time, but I also never thought I'd see him again. Guess I was wrong about both.

"Come on, I just need to talk to you." He advanced quickly.

"No, no you don't. Leave me alone." I tried to explain more clearly.

"Come on..." He grabbed my arm and pulled obviously getting frustrated. Bad move.

"I said no." I held my stance and jerked my arm from his grasp. "No." I repeated making direct eye contact until he coward away.

I learned later that week that his mom had been diagnosed with some form of cancer. I don't regret not hearing him out. It would have been some sort of desperate plea to get back together because of 'how hard it had been on him' and how 'I needed to love him for him to get through it'. Some sort of bull that I hadn't the patience for. Ironically, when she died, this was exactly what happened. Three years after we had broken up, and a week after his mom died, he messaged me trying to get a date to his moms funeral and I shut him down with two well placed Okay?'s. The result of that was a rap written and recorded about how I was so emotionally abusive. It was so bad in fact that a year after he uploaded it, he deleted it. I'm sure the only views on it were from me showing it to all my friends for a laugh.

By the time Senior year rolled around I was already looking at apartments to get with Erica.

"How about this one?" I mentioned pulling up one of the options nearby on my phone.

"Eh, I don't know if I have the money." She wrote off the idea without so much as a glance over at it. "How about that skit in class today?" She changed the subject and turned towards one of her theater friends putting her hand up between us.

Is this ever even happening? I wondered walking away. Because she never wants to talk about it. I scrolled past a couple different options. It better be happening. I don't know what I'm gonna do if I have to live there for college. I rolled my eyes glazing over the prices. I just can't shake the feeling that she's drifting away from me. Whatever, she's allowed to hang out with whoever she wants to. I'm just newly single. She'll come round about it. Soon enough I'll be out of that house and on my own.

Mom and I went to maybe one more family counseling appointment together, but they were getting less and less productive. We couldn't go as a unit anymore, that ship had long sailed with me, so my sessions turned into nothing more than a ranting session I was required to go to. That's alright with me. I always figured when I went. Kinda defeats the purpose of family counseling. Not that I would want them to come. I shuddered as I hunkered down into the plush grey chair I always sat in. What flavor do I want today? I wondered picking apart the candy bowl to my left.

"How are you today?" My therapist asked soothingly.

"Eh. Same old." I would always respond. Then she'd spend the next hour just listening to me. I wonder what she's going to suggest today. I always pondered during each story I'd tell. Just talk to them they're your parents, she loves you, write them a letter, just honestly talk with them about it, get them all to come here to talk, approach it as a concerned third party, just try to calm down and talk to them one on one, just do what they say, keep your head down, try to move out, go to a different location to chat, blah blah blah... Same old shit different day. If any of that worked I wouldn't be here Sandra. I complained in my head. Maybe she's gonna be more imaginative this time. I hoped, delving into another reason why I couldn't just talk to them and showing her another recording as proof. Eventually the session would end, sixty bucks wasted. At least it's not me paying for it.