warning: drug abuse, mentions of suicide

Your house is as silent as a fucking tomb— maybe that's fitting, because the three inhabitants are decaying at a steady rate, in their own private corners. You don't ever leave your room unless you're forced to, because you don't see the point. Why should you? It's only filled with decorations curated for the eyes of outsiders, not anyone who actually lives there. All you hear are your echoing footsteps, no matter what time it is, or one of the endless rotations of maids— not too pretty or young anymore, Dad might stick his dick into her and make another scene. You're supposed to avoid scenes at all costs, please, Robert, don't bring down the good family name, which is why you delight in making some of your own so much. Shaking this masoleum up the tiniest, tiniest bit.

You lie on your bed, throwing a baseball at the ceiling, a sea of dull possibilities spreading before you every time you feel the harsh slap of leather against your palm. Maybe you should take Cherry somewhere, but her mama can't stand you and her daddy's been worse since the night you drove her home drunk— and you've been getting sick of her nagging, too, especially when she won't even put out. It'd be a hell of a lot more fun to go downtown and pick up one of those greaser girls, with skirts so short their panties show, who fling around the word fucking before every noun and start preening the second they see your Mustang. Party girls will do anything, once they've had a few drinks, and not remember it after—

Or maybe it'd be better to grab some of your buddies and beat a few greasers' heads in, what the fuck. Not Randy, though, which kind of kills the appeal, 'cause he's still in the hot seat with his dad after his last arrest. God, does Randy love to whine about him— waah waah waah, like one of those baby dolls you yank the string on. His dad's such an ass. Grounded him the time you broke the neighbor's windows with your BB guns. Gave him a licking the times he stumbled home drunk. Really gave him a licking the time you got completely wasted at school and picked a fight with this scrawny, scared-eyed Indian kid, Johnny something. His old man dragged him out of the office by the ear. You waited for an hour after school so they could get a hold of yours, then smiled real sweet at the principal and said that you'd just be on your way, if he didn't mind. After he recalled the new set of bleachers your daddy had bought for the school, turned out he didn't.

(You told him the whole story over dinner, later that night, in lurid detail. Pointed out exactly what thrilling events he'd missed while he was fucking his secretary, a sad, pathetic attempt to make him care— even more pathetic than coming to breakfast wasted, or getting hauled in for drag racing, or your other countless stunts. Dared him to hit you, yell, get mad. At least acknowledge there's a problem for once in his goddamn life.

Mother: Oh, Bobby, could you not fight right before our Christmas picture gets taken? Look at that split lip. How am I supposed to explain that to your grandmother?

Reaches over to fuss with your collar, tries to smooth your hair down. Covering up the cracks. Not that she loves you or anything. She just doesn't want to have to pay extra to fix the photograph.

Dad: I don't have time for this, Robert.

Gets up from the table, grabs his briefcase, heads out the door. Ten minutes. That's more time than he thinks you deserve.)

You want to break something just for the angry joy of watching it break, thinking about this, but you have to keep up appearances around here, not act too unseemly— that's for the common people. Mother screams things without words at night, ugly streaks of mascara coming down her face as she cries, and adjusts Dad's tie before work in the morning. Pretends you don't notice the vodka she pours into her orange juice after he leaves. Turns away when you pull out your own flask at the breakfast table, because it didn't happen. None of it happened. This is a good, proper Christian family, a shining example for the rest of the neighborhood, and if you remember anything else, you're the one with the problem.

Then you smile and let the baseball crash to the mattress, swing your legs over the bed, because you don't actually have to remember. Ever again.

(Calculate it, Bob. It's all about the numbers around here. How many hours can Dad 'work overtime' before Mother threatens to overdose again, and how many diamond necklaces does he need to pay up before she's back to being his girl? How many bribes can they both throw in your direction to make up for never giving a damn? How many greasers do you have to insult and beat down before you feel any better about yourself? Most importantly, how many more times can you hear about Dad's boss, need to make a good impression on el jefe, Robert, he's responsible for all we have, and aren't you so very proud to be a chip off the old block, before you snap? Not that it would make a difference if you did, or have already, or might eventually. There's money. There is so, so much money in this house, enough to drown in. You could smash every inch of it to rubble and piss on the remains, and it could all be replaced. No one would ever notice the lack.)

Slowly, you pad your way over to your parents' bathroom and open the medicine cabinet, which is full of the lowest-hanging fruit imaginable. You've got buddies who bust their asses haggling with the Shepard gang and the River Kings for a hit of the good stuff, but as is the case with most things in your life, you don't have to try when you've got a mother with a crooked shrink. Her favorite is Valium. It's rapidly becoming your favorite, too.

You used to agonize before taking a pill, double-check whether someone was about to catch you in the act, worry whether you'd overdose off of two fucking tablets while they dissolved bitter on your tongue. It's been a long time since, and you've discovered what stills a mind that refuses to ever stop. Shut the door— yes, even though they'd probably just offer you some more downers, you don't need an audience for your collapse, do you. Unscrew the bottle. Pour out three— no, take five, what the fuck. Swallow them dry, before you have time to hesitate, and hope they burn a hole straight through your esophagus. Sit down on the bathroom floor, feel the cold tile beneath your hands, and wait until that happy, golden numbness kills every ounce of the pain.

Maybe you should swallow, and swallow, and swallow, until you're dead and nothing ever hurts again. Maybe you should drive your second car into a pole and go out in a beautiful, horrible explosion. Maybe you should buy a gun and blow your brains out and make them have to clean up the mess.

But even that wouldn't make them care. They'd vacuum you up like a speck of dust and pretend you were never there at all.

You think you'd cry, if there was anything inside of you that could still cry.