I drop the crumpled daisies and stare at her. "How...how did you recognize me? I-I was worried you wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't I recognize my own son?" She gives me half of a smile, but her voice is emotionless. "Come in."
There's a joyful lump in my throat. I hesitantly limp inside. It's average, but miles better than the shitty places I'm used to. The floors are made of slick tile, and don't make me cringe like the creaky wood floors my house has.
She tells me to sit on the couch. I have five hundred questions, but I can't dive in right away or she'll get thrown off and possibly not answer me at all. I start with, "How are you?"
"Fine. Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
"What do you do these days?"
Considering her tone, I'm surprised, but excited, that she wants to know anything about me. "I draw and listen to music a lot, and I have the most beautiful girlfriend in the world."
"Oh, that's nice." She pauses. We both know it's awkward. "Has the neighborhood changed?"
"Not really. A lot of the people are still there. I don't know if you remember the Rodriguez family. Gio's still my best friend. What about you?"
"I've been living," she responds, voice clipped.
A weird ticking cat clock overpowers us. I examine the house more while she sips coffee. Old hippie art is painted on the walls, with a dark pink background. Naked women and men with crowns of stars, rainbow-striped lips, and flowers for eyes. Good Morning, Sunshine dances around their heads in curved, trippy letters.
"Excuse me for a sec," I say.
The art piece extends the entire hallway. There's sapphic relationships sprinkled throughout, though it looks like she made an effort to hide them. There's mushrooms and FLOWER POWER growing from the skin of the men, who have soft feminine features in contrast to most of the women having manly, squared jawlines. There are paintings of music notes and barefoot street dancers of all colors. It gets more religious near the end, with depictions of saints and a glowing baby Jesus. The saints are gathered around a human heart, sparkles dashing off it like it's on fire. Everything correlates into a massive mural that covers an entire section of the house.
And I am utterly entranced by it.
My mom may have left me, but she hasn't left 1975.
"Did you paint all this?" I call. "It's mesmerizing."
"I did." She rewards me with a full smile. "I've been working on it for a little over a decade. It's supposed to represent my maturity, my journey to sobriety. God, I smoked so much weed, drank too much. I can't imagine doing that now. Too teenage."
"Now I know where I got my love of art from," I say. "And weed's great, when it doesn't make me paranoid."
Her eyes narrow into slits, lips pursed. "Okay, but why are you here?" Her tone is cold, causing my stomach to hurt more than it already does. "What are you trying to get from me?"
Jesus, she's speaking my internal fears whenever I meet someone new. I hate hearing my thoughts being repeated to my face. And then, I realize she thinks I'm an addict. A lazy, dysfunctional addict, like Dad.
"I don't snort shit. I smoke weed and cigs," I say quickly.
"You shouldn't do that. It'll make your lungs rot."
"I'm eighteen now. I want answers and Dad wouldn't give me any. He got rid of all your stuff and didn't let me talk about you at all."
"Is he still an addict? I'm sure he couldn't hide it from you for long."
"Yeah, still on the same shit." I shouldn't curse around her. I have to act professional until we're comfortable with each other, but I'm impatient as hell.
"Oh, of course. I assume he didn't raise you, then."
"Abandoned me for days at a time. I raised myself until he-" I cut myself off. Candace isn't important. "He really got to be too much."
"You can understand why I left." She laughs dryly, stopping when she sees me flinch.
Before she can say the next thing, I spit, "Why did you leave?"
"I just said, Victor's addiction."
"No, why did you leave me with him? You knew he was an addict and that he couldn't raise me." My voice cracks as I whisper, "Why didn't you take me with you?"
It's pathetic.
"I didn't think you'd adjust well to new surroundings. You were really attached to Gio and your dad. I don't know how you would react if I relapsed into my addiction again, what would happen to you."
"So, you left me with the fucking addict who you knew would never recover?"
"At least with him, I knew there were neighbors who would look after you. It sounds like they did. Your father and I agreed to take my name off the lease and replace it with yours. You get the house after he dies, if that makes you feel better, but really, I just...I wasn't ready for kids."
"That doesn't make me feel better. If I could adjust to Dad never being there, I'm sure I could've adjusted to a new house," I say to the floor. "'Not being ready for kids' is what parents say when they abandon their infants, not their five-year-olds." Keeping my voice in check is becoming difficult, as it begins to raise with the rhythm of my increasing anger. Each word brings pain to my insides, but I don't fucking give a shit. "You stuck around long enough that I didn't think you'd just leave me like that. I didn't think you'd fucking wake me up to say goodbye. Mothers don't do that."
She shakes her head. "I don't know how to explain it without hurting you."
It's too late for that. "All I want is for you to be part of my life again. We can make up for all the years we lost, be a family," I plead. It's stupid and too hopeful. I'm asking too much, I know I am. But that can't stop me from trying. "Mom..."
Big mistake. She looks me dead in the face. Her voice is rough, yet wavering. "Listen, alright? It has been thirteen years. I left for a reason. I am clean and sober. You cannot just tear into my life again. You are part of the past."
I inhale sharply, and she delivers the final blow.
"You are a reminder of everything I have ever regretted." She gets up and walks to the door, opening it. "I've given you the answers you wanted. Go, please."
I think it's how relatively calm her voice is, how nonchalant and careless, that makes me explode. "You can't fucking do this to me. You can't abandon me and give me a bullshit excuse after I traveled over a thousand fucking miles to find you, after I fucking suffered for so long. I may fucking hate myself, but I deserve better than that. I know I fucking deserve better." I erupt into a coughing fit. There is pain running through every vein, every organ, every muscle, every skin cell.
She puts her cold hand on my chest and says, tone unchanged, "I have a different life. I am not a mother. For the last time, go. Please."
When she pulls her hand back, an icy feeling still remains.
She's talking to me as if I'm Dad. I shouldn't have mentioned the weed or cigarettes. Things would be different. That was when she went from monotone to angry, hurtful, and soul-crushing. It wouldn't have gone downhill this quickly if I hadn't told her I'm half smoker, half stoner. She'd start showing emotion and interest.
She was going to love me.
And I fucked it up.
Dad's words resurface when she ushers me to the porch.
She doesn't want to see you.
She said not to contact her unless you died or something.
I can't believe he was actually right. I was all sure of myself, getting my hopes up like I always do, trying to convince myself I'm not naive anymore.
That I'm not still a child.
I tremble, flesh so devoid of touch, that if I tore open my chest to reveal my heart, it would be chewed raw by venomous tongues and trapped in a cage of thorns. The broken and stomped on daisies are a pretty good metaphor for how I feel right now, except I'm not in a poetic mood.
The walk to the car takes longer than it did to come up to the door. If I were in a poetic mood, I'd think it was because of the heartache and rejection, but in reality, it's because my body is going to Hell.
I crawl into the backseat and lie down, ignoring Alaska's inquiries about how it went and Gio still complaining that the trip was pointless. "I'm in a lot of fucking pain. Drive back to that store where Gio got the Honey Buns and get me some food, please. I'll pay for it, just get it for me. I can't move. It hurts."
Alaska goes as fast as she can, and if I wasn't miserable in every sense of the word, I'd thank her for it.
I give Gio some money and muster, "Call your mom. She misses you."
For a second, he looks about as pained as I do, and Alaska doesn't follow him as he gets out. "Go with him," I ask her, "so that he doesn't spend it on anything stupid, please?"
"Mhm, yeah, and then we're taking you to the hospital."
"I'm not arguing this time, I swear."
She leaves and I crawl into the front seat.
I remember finding a copy of Lolita abandoned in a coffee shop. I picked it up and sat there, reading it in order to get into the mind of a pedophile, to see how those wastes of human air work out and justify their sick fantasies in their heads. Nymphets and faunlets ripe for the taking, described in the book as attractive by the demonic narrator and described as promiscuous by dictionaries.
No matter how much pretty prose the book used, or how elegant the dictionaries made the words sound, I still couldn't understand it. I took it home with me and read it repeatedly, thinking that maybe one day, something would click and it would make sense.
It never has, but maybe this will be different. Maybe I'll understand Candace one day, or Mom's reasoning.
Right now, I need to get out of Colorado.
I can see my best friend and girlfriend wandering inside the store, actually worried about me. The two of them are the largest family I've ever had.
And they'll be better without me. Alaska will succeed in her endeavors, becoming even more of a force to be reckoned with than she already is. Gio will overcome the bigotry surrounding him and get his fucking life together.
Meanwhile, I'll be part of the past, decaying in the weeds and covered in rust, but unworthy of stardust.
I cannot understand what screw has to be loose to make an adult attracted to children. I cannot understand why the adult would want to indulge in it, turn it poetic and romanticize it, rather than fix it.
I cannot understand why they're sorry that they got caught instead of sorry that they deflowered a child, when they know, everyone knows, how vile it is. They know they'll get killed in prison for it by their own inmates, but that still doesn't stop them.
Just like how the memories and pain won't stop until I kill myself.
There's no reason to continue. I didn't start being nothing when Candace put the label on me. I won't simply always be nothing from this point on. I have always been nothing, since birth.
That is how I will die.
But if I wanted everything to be over as fast as possible, I'd start driving right now. I'm empty inside. The lack of nutrients will cause me to pass out. The car will swerve, crash, and burst into flames.
Just like my entire life, that would be uncontrolled, and it's still possible I'd survive that and be left without a car. Same thing if I let my kidneys give out. I want to be in control of my death.
So, I eat one of Gio's Honey Buns and start driving. Even as the familiar regret seeps in, like a friend that's relied on, yet unlikeable. Even as Alaska bursts from the store, leaving stars in her wake, and shouts after me because she cares too much. Even as the demons inside my kidneys tear at me with their claws without hesitance, despite my internal begging for it to go away.
Hey mama, look at me. I'm on my way to the promised land, and it's my own fucking fault.
There's not gonna be any fucking party or friends, and I'm not a cool rockstar, so the good ol' red horned fucker downstairs probably doesn't give a shit about me. There's only gonna be peace, and I will finally be able to fucking sleep.
They say you go to Hell for suicide, but the curiosity or the want to sin is in human nature. You don't sin by killing yourself.
You sin just by being alive.
• • •
Alcohol probably isn't the best thing for my kidneys, but going on one final drinking/smoking binge in celebration of death seems like the best thing for a sign off.
It will all be over soon.
I wandered into the first fucking party I could find. The goddamn door was open and the crowd has both shrunk and grown. If I get kicked out for being too drunk or whatever, I can just go to the first ledge I see and jump. It's that simple, that hopeless.
I'm sitting in a fucking nameless dude's bedroom, chugging Bud Light after Bud Light as my body tries to eject my soul so it can find a new one. I can hear dipshits in the living room cheering on friends for doing the same thing. I have a sneaking suspicion this is a college party because there's a bunch of goddamn fancy football jerseys everywhere that I've only ever seen come out of colleges. That, and the fuckers here look less homeless than at any high school party I've been to. (Obviously, that doesn't include me).
College goers put me off even more than high schoolers. A lot of them go around thinking that they're better than everyone for having a degree and that they're allowed to lecture outsiders because they assume having extra education makes them extra intelligent. At least in high school, everyone hated those types, but they're everywhere in college, so nobody can escape them.
"Hey, Brandon! Twenty bucks if I can drink this entire vodka with a straw through my nose!"
Jesus Christ. Then again, the party animals aren't much better, continuing to act like high schoolers even after they've entered the real world.
Good thing I'll be going into space soon.
Fourteen was when I woke up. The depression diagnosis, finally being able to put real words to what I'd been through, the fucking resurge of Candace's sexual comments.
I used to think I was super mature for my age, having raised myself and drank alcohol and survived all this shit without being torn down. Then, I learned that convincing kids they're mentally older than they really are is a common grooming tactic, and it all made sense.
Maybe people in general just scare me, which is a terrifying thought in itself. When we were kids, the hippie adults told us to embrace not being normal. But there's a difference between being unique and straight up not understanding how to be a functional adult (or human, for that matter) because your parents never guided you and left you in the claws of an abuser.
I hope this fucking alcohol kills me. At least I'll die doing what I love.
Some fucking bitch comes in and slides beside me, all smiley and bright, not a care in the world. (If I were normal, I'd be happy, too. She has a nice smile). She's got wavy blond hair, dark blue eyes, and full pink lips. She's the most classic example of a bombshell (or a fucking living Barbie doll) and I instantly realize what she wants before she even opens her mouth. (Her smile doesn't seem so nice anymore). She starts talking, trying to be sexy or some shit. The last time this happened, I was also drunk off my ass, and the lady wanted me to buy her drinks. I assume it's the same here. I look like and am a loser, so they think they can make easy money. I don't know why I keep running into manipulators.
I put down my third drink and snarl, "What the fuck do you want? I wasn't listening."
She instantly looks hurt, but that's her own fault for being all flirty and weird when I'm clearly not in the fucking mood. Is it really that hard for everybody to let me kill myself in peace? "Look," I say before she can continue, "if you're going to waste my time, at least give me a minute to get more drinks. You want anything?"
"Ew, you drink?"
Is she fucking blind? Her words are distasteful and I hate her even more. "Only at parties," I lie.
I return to the bedroom after gathering my stash, expecting her to be gone so I can indulge by myself.
She's not. She's still propped up on the bed, getting undressed. I want to ask her name (she looks like an Audrey), but I know I'll never see her after today. If movies taught me anything, names are for people who will see each other again.
Sometimes I wonder how Mom would be if she'd never met Dad. If I'd be here right now, subconsciously hoping to die of alcohol poisoning so I won't have to go searching for a bridge.
I crack open my next beer. "Get dressed, Jesus. I don't fucking want sex. Why the fuck are you at a college party if you don't like drinking? That's like if you hate clowns, but went to the circus."
"It makes people violent. I just don't like it, and I'm here for other reasons."
Drunk men are easy to take advantage of. That's why you're here, I think.
"If you don't want any drinks, just like I don't want to talk, leave me alone." Making my point blatant, I focus on my drinks, massaging my sides.
The girl interrupts my focus and says, "You're sad, you know that? Sad and lonely." The thought is unfinished. She's all offended and has more on her mind.
I finish it for her. What boy doesn't want sex? Shrugging, I start to chug my beer again. "I'm just sad. I want to be alone."
She's fucking desperate now, even as I glare at her. "I need a favor. I've been trying for almost two days, whoring myself out, because I need money. My girlfriend is home for the summer from college and I haven't seen her since she left because she's been so busy."
"And that's my problem, how?"
"I came here for a trip with my friend, Orion, and then he decided he was gonna stay longer because he met a guy. Now, I can't get home. We came in his car from Chicago. If you give me some money, or even if you only drive me a little bit of the way home, I'll leave you alone after that. I need to get to my girlfriend."
He left you like I left my friends. We're both horrible, but where the fuck have I heard the name Orion before? "Was this Orion dude black, kinda looks like Tupac, but if Tupac was lame?"
"He looks like this," and she shows me a picture from her wallet.
Jesus fucking Christ. I do know him. "Yeah, that guy he met was my best friend, Gio. I didn't know they actually bonded. Seemed like a one-night stand to me."
"Orion gave him his number. He never does that. Don't say I told you anything if you ever see him, but he's been confused about his sexuality for a while. I think he's starting to figure it out."
She's telling me all this shit as if we know each other or as if I care. Giving her that ride to Chicago would get both of us home and her off my back. "That's cool. I live in Chicago, too. I can drop you off."
I may as well do something nice before kicking the bucket. If she ends up being crazy and pulls a knife on me, I'll just let her go on a stabbing spree. That way, I'll be a tragedy instead of a coward.
The problem with that is, she's grateful and doesn't look insane. "Yes! Yes, thank you! Oh, if you don't mind me asking, what did you come to Colorado for?"
"Stuff. It's kind of a...touchy subject."
"Hm, okay. My name's Polly."
"Tyler. I'm too drunk to drive, but I'm sure you already know that."
I have to piss the alcohol outta me, so I tell her to wait while I find a bathroom.
It hurts - pissing, that is - and when I look down, my urine is blood red. This is most commonly associated with testicular cancer, which would scare me if I had a reason to live. Death will take care of it. It's okay.
With this, I make what's probably the second biggest mistake in the universe and fucking give the girl my keys.
She takes over immediately, digging around in her purse for a couple CDs. She puts in Bikini Kill. "You don't mind feminist punk rock, do you?"
I try masking the pain in my voice. "I don't really care about anything right now, no. And I like this band, anyway."
"Their concerts are wild. Ever been to one?"
"I've been trying to. I like a lot of underground shit, but I keep missing the fucking tour dates."
She says, "I know. They're usually nowhere close to Illinois."
We're quiet for a while until she says softly, "You don't care that I'm gay, either, right? Nobody has so far, but I'm just making sure. Like, if you see me kiss my girlfriend or whatever. We live in the same apartment, so you could meet her if you want to."
"I don't give a fuck about anybody as long as they're not a piece of shit. Then again, Gio's my best friend and he's an asshole."
I press my face against the window. I'm surprised at how calm I feel, despite all the internal pain. Maybe it's the alcohol. Maybe it's because she's gay and I know she's not actually interested anything sexual from me. Maybe it's because the conversation is casual and it doesn't matter. Maybe it's because I know nothing will matter after I leave her and end it.
"You know any shortcuts?" I ask. "I can't do another road trip."
"Yeah," Polly says, turning onto the freeway...the most anxiety-inducing type of road out there. "We're gonna take a lot of these if we wanna get home by like, the ass of dawn."
"W-Why don't you j-just d-drive to the a-airport?" I stutter.
She responds, "Bianca's home already," and starts speeding up. I grip the armrests, kidneys writhing.
Once we get to an average road and my stomach slithers back down from my throat, I open another beer. She makes a Teen Girl Movie move and starts applying her goddamn makeup at a stoplight. "If you were driving, would you be drinking?"
"No, duh. Only insane or careless people do that. I don't care what happens to me, but I could hurt somebody else."
"I don't know anything about you except that you're too attached to alcohol, like, I'd be concerned if we were friends. The party's over."
"Well, we're not," I say, annoyed. "I'm just lending you my car as a kindness. All I know about you is that you're a really talkative lesbian. Not much."
"What else do you wanna know?"
"Uh, what do you like to do, I guess?"
"My girlfriend, Bianca, has a Riot Grrrl band. I'm a bassist in it."
"Cool. So, do you play in punk clubs, shopping malls, or..."
"Mostly whatever local place we can get, or just where we feel like it. We played in front of a Walgreens once, and everybody thought we were homeless."
"Heh." Fucking kidneys. I need to sleep this off. "You know, I'm gonna go to sleep, if that's cool with you." Wishful thinking, but we could be home by the time I wake up.
"One more thing. By the way you dress, I say you listen to Nirvana or Alice in Chains. Am I right?"
"Spot on. With how you dress I'd expect you to listen to the fucking Spice Girls, The Cranberries, Sade, or Fiona Apple, but you clearly don't."
"What's wrong with The Cranberries?"
"Nothin', but I'm more of a Mazzy Star kinda guy."
She turns down her music and lets me rest after I have a smoke.
When I wake up again, it's because she's at a fucking drive through and wants to know my order.
"I don't want nothin', 'kay?" my half awake brain responds, and I'm gone the second I feel the window on my face.
When it happens again, it's drastically different. I jolt awake to find the girl slumped against the wheel, lightly snoring.
"Holy shit!" I shout. What's her name? "Hey, wake up!"
The sun is up and the road is bumpy. I look out and see we're driving on fucking rocks.
"Shit, shit, shit...Polly!" I screech and she slams her back into the seat, screaming when she fully comes to her senses.
She swerves to return to the main road, and I yell, "Have you been driving this whole time? No pits stops at all?"
"I got more food and gas. That's it. I don't know what happened..."
"You didn't think you could pull over and sleep a while?"
She shakes her head. All she wants is to get to Bianca, like how frenzied I was trying to get to Angie. It makes me feel shitty for being a dick at the beginning. Even if she's annoying, she doesn't deserve the response I got. Hopefully, Bianca wants to see her.
"My makeup is ruined," she says sadly.
"You can fix it when we get closer to home. Do you know how close we are?"
"Took me and Orion fifteen hours to get to Denver, should take us fifteen to get back. We've been driving for nine, at least."
"Do you know when you fell asleep? Pull over, I need to check my car."
"If there's any dents in it, it'll have character."
"It's a shitty car, though. Bottom of the barrel. All it could take is one more hit for it to be done and I don't have money for a new one."
Despite heading towards Chicago, the car is literally my home now. Even if I wanted to, I can't return to Dad and Candace. They'd never shut up after I made such a dramatic exit. The car is paid off, but I don't have a job.
That proves how much of a failure I am. Another reason to fucking kill myself. No one would miss me. A majority of people on the planet are useless, anyway, including me.
I lie and tell Polly I didn't find any scratches. (There's a long one on her side that goes from the wheel to past the door). "You can keep driving or we can take a break-"
Of course, she starts driving. "We should be taking turns, you know."
Let's see: I'm extremely hungover, possibly have a ruptured kidney and/or cancer, and starving myself. All of this will be made worse if I eat the grease and sugar we have in order to drive, but I can't tell her that. We're not friends.
I muster, "I'm hungover, okay?"
She throws old words back in my face. "And that's my problem, how?"
Jesus, I'm an asshole. I should've helped her right off the bat. I bite my tongue to withhold spitting venom. "I can't. I've been having issues with my back."
She lets out an Ugh and keeps driving.
Polly stops at a goddamn waffle house and I have to wait in the car while she gets coffee. It's a perfect place for addicts and all other kinds of societal degenerates. I should probably go in. I could slit my wrists in the bathroom.
"You say you're in pain, but you're smoking," Polly says, eyeing my cig. "That tends to cause more discomfort."
"I already said I don't care what happens to me, but if I were driving, I'd most likely end up hurting you."
She responds with a sniff and a restart of my car. God, I want this to be over. The longer I'm alive, the worse I feel.
I wonder if I'd made it out like I'm this super helpful and amazing person, then Angie would have wanted to keep me around. I could've taken care of her plants or some shit.
I fucked it up with the same cigarettes I'm smoking now. Same pack and everything. It's hurting my stomach, but I guess that's what I get.
The pain will go away with sleep. Sleep is humanity's free sample of death before we're force-fed the real thing. "Tell me when we're home," I say, closing my eyes.
I don't fall asleep quickly, though. The memories haven't been as persistent (it's possible my brain is cutting me some slack) and it's more the physical shit keeping me awake.
"Fucking hell," I groan. "Pull over, please. I need to piss again." (Still bloody, sorta brownish. Still tired, no motivation).
I don't wanna have Polly act like a taxi driver, even though I really wanna lie down. I limp back to the passenger seat and shutter. What the fuck have I come to?
Nothing stupid or scary wakes me up the next time. Polly's getting more gas. "We're in Chicago," she whispers, grinning. Her makeup is fixed.
Through the pain, I show relief. I stay up as she drives the rest of the way to her apartment. She is utterly, head over heels, a bleeding heart, for Bianca. I can relate to her more than I'd like to admit, and my stomach sinks as I think about Alaska.
She hates you, now. You won't be able to fix anything. Kill yourself. You fucking ruined everything.
I clench my fists as Polly finally, finally, gets out of my car. She stares at the concrete. "See you around?"
This is the second-lowest point I've been at in my entire life. I don't want to remember this, and I won't. "I don't think so."
She nods, mouth forming into a thin line. She doesn't leave, though, her body angled awkward and crooked at the door.
"You're lonely," I say, voice flat.
She smiles weakly. "Yeah, I guess I am."
"I'm not here to emotionally connect to people with deep conversations. I'm here to wallow, okay?"
"Okay. Give me one of those Bud Lights, huh?" I toss it to her and she finishes, "Hey, thanks so much for this. I wanna repay you someday."
"You really don't have to-"
She's already writing her number on my arm like Orion did to Gio. "Call me if you need a solid."
I stare at the number. She wrote it in the darkest, bloodiest purple pen known to man. Dying with some chick's digits stained to my flesh isn't really what I was expecting, but there's nothing I can do now.
She goes inside and I return to the driver's seat. She forgot her Bikini Kill CD. I don't know her apartment number and I'm back to feeling numb.
I dig through my own CDs and feel the cool metal of the scale. If I'm going to die, I'd better die skinny.
I walk behind the apartment (because I'm pathetic), take off my shoes, and step onto it.
135.0.
I'm going to die with all my loved ones hating me, fat, and alone. At this point, though, that doesn't seem so bad. The end is too desirable for me to think about anything else.
The last thing to do is find a place to off myself. I shove another Honey Bun in my mouth, the sickly sweet cavity-inducing pastry bringing agony to my insides, just like I thought it would.
There is nothing left to do but drive.