Goodbye
He was so tired and yet so fired up it didn't make any sense.
They did make any sense, as they flail their arms around, words shouted out of love, and the whining of his brother in the background. He wasn't sure how he got into this place, as he stares down at the plate of pasta in front of him. It tastes different in this lighting, it tastes different as he ruefully watches his life be packed away as his parents slam a brochure of some sort in front of him.
"Are you listening to what I'm saying, Lovino Vargas?" screeches his mother, her face thrusting in front of him. He furrows his eyebrows, and wants to be so mad, but he can't because it was all his fault. It was his fault that his parents were constantly speaking in tones that were gradually raising at his snarky remarks. Tired, they're tired. So is he.
It's funny, really - the looks that he gets from everyone. He cares so deeply and not at all that his heart is pounding in his chest and he feels like throwing up or laughing. The small booklet in front of him has a picture of a tomato farm, with no words. No descriptions, nothing; yet it seems as if it holds the answer for what Lovino needs.
The blood racing through his veins picks up and he grabs the brochure, his lips subconsciously pulling into a sneer. "Oh, and what the hell is this?" He's so angry and calm all at once, and he hates himself and his voice. The voice that always spoke it's hateful words and hateful names and hateful tones. Because that is what he was; hateful.
His gaze slips over the paper to his worn-out father and livid mother, his brother cowering in the corner of the table. This is when he laughs, though no one seems to find it odd or out of place. Lovino thinks he's momentarily insane, that he's finally lost it. The laugh was nothing like it should be - the laughter was full of spite and loathing, dripping with sarcasm.
"That's where your mother and I decided you'd be spending your summer." His father's voice is past being aggressive, now at a cold level Lovino hates even more than when his padre was screaming. Every time it reaches this point, Lovino usually snaps into reality and is hit with the fact that his parents truly hate him, that everyone truly hates him. Which is fine with him, seeing as he hates everyone twice as much. But it never fails to cause a slight rip in his heart that this voice was the voice spoken to him, the voices of parents who have given up.
"It's called 'Campo di Pomodoro,'" his mother adds. Her arms were crossed in a way that Lovino figures is her disapproving parental figure stance. He nearly rolls his eyes, but catches himself in time. No way in hell was he going through the arguing again! It gave him a headache.
It was funny, that all he cares about was the fact that he would get a headache. Hilarious that he was so cold that all of the words that his parents spoke never got to his head. But that's what it was like. His parents would yell at him, tell him he was a disappointment, leave him out of family activities - which he didn't give a damn about - in place of his brother Feliciano.
He looks over at Feliciano to see the younger teenage boy staring up at him with wide eyes. He looks terrified and confused, and Lovino considers slapping his brother straight across the face when red-hot anger pulses through him from a single look. Precious fucking Feliciano, the golden boy who could never do anything fucking wrong.
He's known from a young age that his parents favour his younger brother. It was evident in their actions. The soft, proud looks in their eyes when his idiotic brother forms a - grudgingly, Lovino will admit it - amazing piece of artwork, or when his brother fucking gets an 'A' on any kind of report. His parents coo over his brother's food even though Lovino and Feliciano make the same fucking recipe, it evidently "tastes different," with Feliciano. Lovino could not hold back the amount of times he thought of fucking killing himself in order to not fucking commit a homicide.
"Green with envy," was the most perfect analogy, though Lovino would never admit it that he was jealous of his brother. His parents don't care about him, but they adore his brother - Lovino finds himself wondering sometimes about what that must feel like. Love.
"Camp Tomato," Lovino says flatly. "Really?"
"Yes, really," seethes his mother, her brown eyes sharp. "It's in Southern Italy - Sicily. You're gonna be leaving home for Campo di Pomodoro in two days."
"Two fucking days?" Lovino shouts, eyes widening as he stands up.
"Language!" shrieks his mother, smacking him. "How many times have I told you to watch your mouth?! This is one of the reason you're going in the first place!"
"I don't give a damn," he shouts back, "because I'm not going."
"Yes, you are," interrupts his father. "Better pack your bags, Lovi."
Lovino stares at his father. Lovi. It was mocking, it was utterly atrocious - who the fuck did his father think he is? Lovino considers taking the knife on the table near the bowl of cold pasta and stabbing out his heart with it, but decides against it.
"Whatever." is all Lovino says. No one tries to stop him as he walks away from the table they ate out at that night, the one outside of their villa. He closes the door behind him and makes his way to his room, fists closed tightly.
He was being sent away for the entire summer. Sent away to hell, a place that was literally called "Camp Tomato." He was practically steaming with rage, and everything around him was so vivid and blurred at the same time. His heart beats fast and he slams the door to his room, and begins to laugh.
It was 7:00 p.m., and Lovino Vargas was thinking of how his parents really did not give a damn about him.