Good Until it Hurts
26. On Fire
"That's so gross!" Angie exclaims.
At first I think she means my sandwich. I have spread a lot of butter on it, and place everything I can find on top of it - ham, cheese, baloney, mustard, ketchup, pickles - 'cause it almost never happens that our fridge is this filled with food. And it's almost noon, and I'm hungry.
I grab the orange juice and try to find a clean glass. When I don't, I take the least dirty one one the counter and rinse it under hot water for a while, before pouring the drink in it. I grab the glass and the sandwich, turning around.
"Move," I say to Angie, 'cause she's standing in my way. I try to take a step forward, but she don't back away.
"Did you do that?"
"Uh, yeah." Is she stupid or something? She just watched me doing it.
"Not the sandwich, that!" She points at my hand holding the glass, and I follow her with my gaze, feel how the room suddenly tilts a bit and my face growing hot when I realize what she's talking about.
"No," I mumble fast. "Move!"
I brush past her, force her to take a step back as I walk into the living room and sit down on the couch. I throw the sloppy sandwich on the table, licking mustard off my finger as I do my best to ignore her. She don't move from the kitchen doorway, just stands looking at me, and I stare at the TV, pretending to be really into the show even if it's a boring one. Ma would probably like it.
"Why would you do that? It looks totally gross, Curly. Did you play that stupid game again?"
"Shut up." I lift the sandwich and take a bite. I guess she means the thing with Pony a couple of weeks ago. She was in the living room when Tim and I came home, and he kept nagging at me, saying he would kill me if he caught me doing some stupid shit like that again. I don't know if it was me he worried about, or if he thought he would have to take me to the hospital, 'cause he kept saying he didn't want to pay for it if it got infected.
"I'm gonna tell Tim," Angie says, and I swear, if she wasn't my twelve year old sister I would hit her so hard right now. I drop the sandwich, glaring at her, trying not to show how my stomach churns.
"You fuckin' won't! If you do that I'm gonna give your fuckin' diary to Clay!"
"You read my diary?" Her face grows red and she knots her hands. "An' his name's Clyde, you moron!"
"I bet he wanna know some stuff about you."
"Go to hell, Curly! Like I care about your hand!" She turns around and stomps up the stairs, and some seconds later I hear her slamming her door shut. I'm glad Pa ain't home, 'cause he would probably give me shit about it.
I try to go back to eating my food, but it really tastes nothing. I glance at my hand and flex my knuckles, making the burns sting, and suddenly my eyes do, too.
I know it's stupid. I don't even really know why I do it, it just happens. I chew on the last bite, but it grows in my mouth, and I end up spitting it out in the glass. I drag my feet up on the seat, wrap my arms around my legs and try to breathe with my forehead against my knees. I need a fucking cigarette so bad it hurts. But I'm out, I'm always out, and I hate this house and I hate my sister and I hate what happened. I hate everything.
I force myself to get up, to go looking for my jacket, and I find it draped over a kitchen chair. I put it on, stick my feet into my sneakers by the door and leave. I feel like such a looser. I need to fix this, I know. I need to fix me. Only I don't know how to do it.
I push my hands down into my pockets, my left one hurting by being scratched against the fabric, reminding me again that I'm going crazy. My chest feels all stuffed up, like I can't breathe normally, and I have to force the air in and out, in and out, but I just remember things too clearly, hands and breaths and words and pain -
I have to stop and throw up my breakfast on the curb. I grab the fence next to me to keep myself up when my head is spinning, wiping my mouth with my jacket sleeve when I'm done. Shit. I feel hot and cold, and then I jump high when a big, black dog suddenly runs from the house and up to the other side of the fence, right where I stand, barking loudly and showing its teeth. I curse and let go, backing away and stare at it. It keeps barking until I turn around and go.
xXx
"Hey, Curly, how's it goin'?"
I glance up, moving my hand along the shelf with the candy bars lined up, my good hand, the other one tucked away into my pocket. Soda looks at it, but not like Angie, 'cause I know he can't see it. What I've done. I guess he thinks I just lifted something, that he almost caught me doing it, but I don't care and he don't say anything.
"M'fine," I mumble, taking a step closer to the counter. I look at him and I get what all the fuss is about, why all the girls like him. And that's fucking bad, ain't it? It should be no one or it should be only Scott, but he ain't here, still locked up in juvie. I won't ever see him again, probably, hopefully, but the thought makes my stomach hurt.
"Yeah?" Soda says, sounding like he don't believe me.
"Hung over," I lie, and he fucking smiles at that, so I have to look away again. I think Bennett destroyed me.
Or maybe Scott did.
Or maybe I was already like this.
"You want somethin'? Oh, hey, hang on a minute, I'll be right back." Soda leaves the counter, and I watch him walk out the door, up to the gas pumps. Two girls in a car, and he must think they look good, the way he acts when he helps them. I can hear them all laughing from where I stand, Soda too.
My heart pounds so hard, hitting my chest and making my ears buzz, 'cause it hits me I'm alone in here. I remove my hand from the pocket, quickly grab a pack of smokes, and tuck it back in. I keep my eyes on the window, on Soda, but he didn't see it, he can't have, with his back turned against me. And if he did, he wouldn't call the fuzz on me, would he? He wouldn't rat, and if he did, I could beat him up. But I feel nauseous again, and I can't stay, I have to go, and I walk up to the door and push it open, just leaving without a word.
The pack feels heavy in my pocket, and I think every car that passes by is a cop car, ready to pick me up and bring me back to juvie. To Bennett. I don't really relax until I'm home, and I run up the porch steps and inside, ignoring Ma sitting on the couch and staring at the TV. I go up to my room and sink down to the floor, next to my bed.
Both my hands are shaking but I fucking did it. I fixed it. Maybe I'm fixed now. I rip the pack open and pick out a stick, lighting it up. I smoke it fast and then stomp the butt out against the floor, watching the ember die against the wood tiles.
But I ain't fixed. It's still in my head. I still feel it.
I take out another stick, and this one I smoke slowly, watching it burn between my fingers, and I twist it around before my eyes, thinking, thinking, thinking. I place my left hand against my knee and watch it, too. It really looks gross, red and black circles dotting my skin, and blisters.
I place the tip of the cigarette against the spot right under my little finger and press. I bite my teeth down hard, my jaw hurting, my hand hurting bad, on fire, but it ain't the worst pain. The worst pain is inside.
"Fuck," I wheeze, and I know I have to let go soon, 'cause it smells and sweat trickles down my forehead, and I can't sit still and I shake and I feel vomit in my mouth and I let go. I drop the cigarette and cradle my wrist with my right hand, muttering curses under my breath, but I don't bawl.
Not much.
I'm really sorry it took me this long to update. My life has been crazy busy lately, and probably will for a while, but I hope I will be able to update faster next time.
And hopefully this story still have readers :)