A/N: Wow. One-shot numero tres. How do these things keep coming out, I have no idea. Anyway, I was in a pissed-off mood when I wrote this, so it may seem like a bunch of angsty crap to most. Sorry, I'm not that talented of a writer. However, comments and reviews would be appreciated XD.
Oh, and for those of you die-hard Furuba fans--- yes, I am FULLY aware that Rin doesn't live with her parents anymore. Let's just pretend this is before she moved in with Kagura. XD
--Juste--
And now...
Fucking Emos.
Ripping music off of your friend's borrowed CD's is pretty sucky. It takes forever, especially when you have to manually fill out the artist info, which is a pain in the ass; and on top of that, your father comes in to tell you to wash his fucking dishes.
He comes up the stairs in his usual manner, taking shuffling steps up the stairs. He's not fat, but I imagine him trying to squeeze through the door like a lard-ass and not fitting, then having to be greased with butter to get unstuck.
"Isuzu."
I fucking hate that name. So I ignore it.
"Isuzu." He repeats.
I can picture his nose flaring from anger, which makes me almost gag. Almost. I suppose I should inform him that I'm listening.
"Huh."
"I think I'm talking to you."
Daddy's cue for me to look up. I grit my teeth and look up through my bangs. Which I recommend doing when you don't want to see someone. In my case, something.
Yes. Eleven tracks of Anberlin ripped to Windows Media Player.
'Album Name-'N-E-V-E-R T-A-K-E F-R-I-E—
"Wash the dishes."
He turns around and leaves.
Whatever.
I double click on the 'Unknown Year' caption to change to 2005.
The conscience fairy appears in my imagination. Not again.
"Yeah, save yourself the trouble. Wash the freaking dishes. If you're lucky, he won't talk to you."
"Fuck you," I say under my breath, directing the f-bomb towards both the conscience and Daddy. I slowly trudge down the stairs and past my lovely brother, who seems to be asleep in front of the television.
I roll up my sickeningly sweet-colored lime green pajama shirt. With poodles. Damn it, I should burn that thing.
Lard is leaning over the stove; eating leftover ground beef and pasta Mother had made for dinner and hadn't put in the fridge yet. Obviously his species of caveman hasn't learned manners yet, or at least hasn't figured out what a fork is.
Pig.
I shake it off, walking towards the sink. Spaghetti-sauce–smothered plates and glasses that once held smoothies and are put all by the edge of the countertop.
I sigh. Dishes are so gay.
I pick up the sponge and squeeze some red soap crap onto it. Bubbles form and soak into the sponge.
I can just feel Lard turning around and stepping in my direction. I see him trying to put his arm around me from the corner of my eye.
"Stop being a drama queen all the time."
Hah. I won't fall for his stupid "let's-just-make-up-and-act-like-we-love-each-other" act again.
I push his arm away with my other not-wet hand.
"Don't touch me." I murmur under my breath.
I know what's next.
Mood swing. Bipolar disorder. Call it what you want. Daddy's not happy with my attitude.
"What wrong with you, huh?" He yells, attempting to pull on my hair. Thank god that it was in a pony tail; otherwise I'd probably have a bald spot.
"Nothing's good enough for you. What are you not getting in life? What are you so fucking unhappy about?"
I just keep scrubbing that greasy pan, trying to wash off the brown bits. With that done, I put it on the drying rack upside down. I fish out the next instrument with my hands in the soapy water. I feel the handle and tip.
Knife.
"I said, what are you so unhappy about?" He repeats, pulling harder.
I don't reply. I'm not fucking giving in to this shit. That knife is pretty tempting right now. I take deep breaths.
Stainless steel. Swedish. Filet Knife.
I know it's pretty damn sharp. I didn't forget how well it sliced the tomatoes I chopped for salad-- the round, plump red kind with the soft flesh.
I test it against my fingertip, with my hands still underwater. I'm not stupid enough to experiment with my metal friend when Lard's standing right next to me. He already thinks I'm a fucking lesbian; because apparently taking pictures for Myspace with your friends automatically makes you either a whore, a friend-with-benefits ménage a trois, or both. He'd send me to the bouncy room with the white coats if he saw what I was doing now.
I feel a tiny tiny sting, much like a paper cut.
Yep. That's pretty sharp.
Lard notices I didn't squeal when he tried to rip off a piece of my scalp, so he goes up the stairs into the living room to place his ass back in the armchair.
He can't see me from here, but the tears are welling up.
What should I doI think to myself, knife still in hand, eying it freakishly.
My breaths starts coming shallow, and my heart's racing.
He wouldn't care. I could clean it up in my room. I have paper towels in the closet. Tomorrow before school I'll get some nice band-aids. I want to wear my Calvin Klein sweater anyways. No one would know.
"You're too smart for this, Rin. Don't give in to the cutting shit. You're way too smart to do that."
Fucking conscience.
I imagine myself, sitting on the floor of the bathroom, my left arm pulled out in between my knees. I trace the veins with that wonderful filet knife, seeing the fluid slowly ooze out of the wounds.
I snap back.
"My mom didn't let me hang out with my friends again. I fucking hate my life," the girl said in a whiny voice, holding out her wrist and pretending to cut the skin with a make-believe razor. Her few friends laugh heartedly.
"Emo is so overrated. I'd never ever cut myself."
Hypocrite. I'd be a freaking hypocrite. I'd be a loser who can't control her anger and a whiny bitch that needs attention when she doesn't get what she wants.
"Fuck it." I say, throwing that damned knife back in the sink.
"Fucking emos."