Mendacium

Fun fact: Mendacium means"Lies" in Latin.

Chapter One: The Brokenness of We

Here he was.

15 years old.

The middle of his pubescent years.

And here he was. Sitting on his ass. Alone in his room. Doing nothing. Same shit, just another day. Who knew a birthday could be so lame?

Morty Smith was now 15. And nothing changed. The teen was seated at his desk, laptop opened in front of him. On his screen was an essay for World History he was in the process of writing. So far, he only had the first two paragraphs typed up. He hated history.

"I wonder what cake mom and dad got for me," Morty murmured. Then he briefly wondered if they even got him a cake. The thought made him frown. Did they even know it was his birthday? It was possible. His mom didn't really care and his dad was always too busy watching over his mother. Summer certainly hadn't wished him a happy birthday during school. But then that could have just been her wanting to keep up her popular facade at school. What popular girl talked to their annoying sibling during school hours?

Shaking his head, Morty pushed against his desk and allowed his seat to spin round and round. He felt his head ache from dizziness and he clenched his eyes shut. The teen planted his feet on the ground. His vision was fuzzy as he opened his eyes but soon the world became clear again and he caught sight of the family photo his mother had placed in his room. It was of his dad, mom, sister, himself, and his grandma. Morty sighed. The people on the picture looked so happy.

Too bad it's all just a lie, Morty thought bitterly.

Three years ago, Morty's grandmother, Dianne, had passed away. His mother's drinking had gotten worse after that. Beth then started to get so drunk, Jerry would have to take off from work just to watch after her, making sure she either went to work, or called out sick. And their issues just grew from there. Jerry lost his job. Beth started blaming him for every little thing that happened. She began drunkenly scolding him for not having a job, and whenever she herself went to "work," it was only to sleep with her co-worker, Daven. She would call Summer a mistake whenever the teen told her to stop drinking. She'd tell Morty that she hated him because his face reminded her of her father. Her father that she only rarely ever spoke of. Her father that, Morty was certain, was long dead.

Morty had rarely heard Beth speak of her father before then. It was as if he never existed. No one ever dared asked, "Where's grandpa?"

The teen could feel his eyes welling up and a lump growing in his throat at the thought of his absent grandpa. He was never around (probably dead, Morty assumed) but his wife was. And she had always been so kind. She coddled her grandkids and gave them all the love they could ever ask for. He remembered the way she would always smile when looking out the window, as if seeing the ghost of an old flame or friend. He briefly wondered if the person she thought about while looking outside was the same person his own mother hated to the point where she couldn't even speak their name.

A hand rapped on his door. "Morty. Dinner." It was Summer. Morty choked down the lump in his throat and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"B-be right there."

Getting up from his chair, he heard his sister walk past his room and pit pat down the steps. Her footsteps were soft and quiet, as though she were walking on air. How does she make such soft steps?

He shook his head. Now wasn't the time for wondering about his sister's feet. He quickly checked himself in the mirror he had hanging on his door. He had the usual on today: tight, blue jeans and one of his many yellow shirts. Today, however, his yellow shirt was a collared button down in celebration of his birthday.

He smiled wryly back at himself.

His parents didn't pay enough attention to even notice that he wears the same color shirt every day, let alone tell if it's a different style. He sighed, forcing a seemingly real smile on his face.

Show time.

The walk from his room to the dining with that fake smile plastered on his face was...uneventful, to say the least.

His mom started talking to him the second he got down the stairs. Badgering him about school, pretending to care about his health, wondering when he was going to join a sports team.

Schools fine. He's doing ok. He's just not feeling sports this year, either.

Beth was seated at the head of the table, Jerry across from her, head hung down to stare at his empty plate. Summer was to her father's left, typing away on her phone, glancing every so often between her mom and Morty. Beth already had a bottle of wine in her hand when Morty sat down across from his sister, leaving the seats beside his mom empty. He muttered a greeting to everyone at the table and eagerly looked at the food laid out on the table. Tonight was Oven Night: pizza rolls, fries, and for dessert...brownies.

Morty made a face. It wasn't cake but it was definitely something.

But the fact still stood that no one had acknowledged his birthday.

He only realized just then how angry that made him.

He knew they didn't care.

He knew they didn't notice him.

But—

But—

But Morty couldn't stop his hand from forming into a fist.

He couldn't stop himself from rising from his seat.

He couldn't stop his fist from slamming on the table.

He couldn't stop the wine glass in front of his dad's plate from falling.

And he couldn't—

He couldn't—

He couldn't stop the words that flew from his mouth as though they had a life of their own.

"I-is anyone going to even tell me 'happy birthday'?!" He could feel his throat burn a bit as he spoke. Hoarse from holding back tears? he wondered.

Now, there were three sets of eyes upon him. No one moved. No one said anything.

Morty could feel himself growing sweaty from nerves. He swallowed. "I-I just..." Suddenly, a chair scrapped against the floor, causing Morty to jump. He watched out of the corner of his eyes as his mother got up, grabbed her wine glass and bottle, and left the room. He bit his lip. If only he had stopped himself from getting angry. He tapped his foot nervously, catching Summer's gaze. She set her phone on the table. "I-I just wanted... It's my b-b-birthday..."

His sister pushed her seat back and stood, walking into the kitchen. Feeling dejected and hurt, Morty looked down at his feet. He could hear his dad give a deep sigh and watched as the man reached towards the pizza rolls and set some on his own plate. It was as if time had slowed and Morty got to watch the last of his dad's will fade away.

Morty had known long ago that his father had given up. He knew. But this—

There was just no reaction. It was as if Morty had stopped existing in his eyes.

Without another word, Jerry dig into his food. Morty quietly sat back down and began to eat as well, not caring if he ate his mom and sister's portions. As he bit into his fifth pizza roll, Summer returned and grabbed the plate of brownies, bringing them into the kitchen.

Receiving a new spark of anger, Morty hoped she'd get fat and ugly from eating all of those brownies.

He and Jerry ate in silence until Jerry decided he was full, leaving his plate at the table and, more importantly, Morty alone. The teen shoved a few more pizza rolls into his mouth and chewed a good bit. Maybe he was really the one who was going to get fat and ugly from stress eating...

Tossing a single frie into his mouth, Morty leaned back in his seat, stuffed.

"God, you really ate a lot." His sister's voice startled him so much he nearly threw up his dinner. Spinning around, he saw that she was holding the plate of brownies. But they weren't really brownies anymore. Summer had stacked them atop each other into two layers and had covered the mass with strawberry frosting, her favorite. And his favorite, too. Morty couldn't help but be in awe of his sister. Even though she hadn't remembered, she was still able to make some magic happen. She set it on the table, groaning out, "You better still have room for this, you pig."

And, with those words, the magic was gone.

"Shut up, Summer! I-I only ate that much 'cause you—you and mom left!"

"Fatty." She smirked but then gave him a genuine smile that Morty couldn't help but return. "Alright, Morty. Let's just cut the fuckin' cake or whatever."

"Thanks, Sum. It—it looks great."

The cake had been adequate. Whoever had made the brownies hadn't cooked it long enough and it had been under-cooked and gooey. But adequate.

And adequate is good.

Especially since he hadn't been expecting anything for his birthday.

Morty was once again sat in his room.

His laptop was opened, now showing a gaming site on screen. He had been in the middle of playing Duty Calls 6 when he finally got bored and began spinning himself round and round in his chair. He only stopped once he fell out of his chair and onto the floor.

Summer is a good sister, he thought. She's the only family he had left.

Pushing himself up off the floor, Morty crawled over to his bed. Once there, he shut his eyes and let the quiet sounds of his room soothe him. But then he realized that his room was not quiet because of the damn game he had left pulled up on his laptop ("Time to head to battle, son!"). Groaning, the boy got up and staggered over to his desk, turning the volume down and shutting the electronic closed. The sound successfully gone, he gave a sigh of relief. As he took a step back from his desk, his hand drug against the smooth wood of his desk before hitting an envelope. Pausing his movements, he picked up the envelope and stared at it.

After having the brownie-cake, he had run out to check the mail. And among all of his parents' bills, Jerry's unemployment checks, and Summer's magazines, a crisp white envelope held his name.

The envelope was pristine and undamaged, unlike his sister's magazines, which had gotten squished into the mailbox. The name Mortimer Smith was spelled on it in clear, neat handwriting. There was no sign of who it was from.

Shrugging, Morty flipped the envelope over and ripped the flap open, letting the envelope fall onto the floor. The card inside was blank on the front, just a baby blue color. Flipping it open, Morty's eyes widened.

The words "Help me. Help me, Morty. Grandpa Rick's in a bit of trouble," were written on the inside with the same handwriting on the envelope.

To be continued...