A/N: There's a possibility for a title change on this fic. I don't really
have anything else to say, so just enjoy this chapter.
Less Than Known
By Cradlerobber Speedo-kun
I didn't even say anything to Towerz. Just found him, grunted slightly, and then walked away. And he followed. Some people would say that he's my lapdog, but he sure as hell isn't. He's just a good friend. Friend. What a funny fucking comment in the universe of Jay Neeling.
We moved down the sidewalk in silence. As predicted, his car is out of commission. He didn't even have to say so, I could just tell since he didn't try to lead me to it. So we wandered off in the direction of my house, and he came along even though he knew that I wasn't gonna invite him in, even though his house is on the other side of the fucking town.
Towerz is probably the person I'm closest to. Not that I'd admit that to anyone out loud. People might think I'm a fucking fag if I ever said that. I like girls, obviously. They have nice curves, usually will listen to you bitch about stuff if they care about you in the slightest, and are obviously great for fucking. The idea of getting something jammed up my ass does not appeal to me in the least. If sex is a pain in the ass, you're just doing it wrong.
We arrive at my house, and I turn to Towerz, "We're going to that keg party tomorrow." It's not a question, it's more of an order than anything else. Doesn't mean he has to go, just that I'd prefer he would. He nods very slightly and turns away, walking back the way we came without so much as a good-bye. He'll probably go to the party; lots of drunk people means lots of people who aren't gonna realize that you're picking their pocket, not groping them. He's the eldest of four, his father works graveyard shifts to try to feed them, and his mother is dead; he needs all the money he can get. The only reason he ever had a car was because he fixed it himself.
I turn back towards the house and mount the cheery yellow front steps. The entire house is painted a cheery yellow. It annoys the fuck out of me sometimes. But I don't say anything to my father about it. It's better than where I was just a year ago.
If people were to see my house, go inside and look around, they'd wonder why I'm so fucked up. They'd think I was just some middle class brat who rebelled out of fucking boredom. It's a nice little house, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a kitchen, dining room, and a TV room downstairs. In the basement there's the laundry room, and a half-bathroom. But I've only been here about a year. I left my mother the instant I realized that my father hadn't abandoned us afterall and was actually living in the area.
When I was little, only about three or four years old, my mother and I ditched my father. At the time I thought he had left us, but I finally figured out that wasn't true last year. He was actually in the hospital. My mother found a guy she liked better, and so we left the house and moved in with her boyfriend. I don't know what happened to my father in all those intervening years, but at some point he moved to Degrassi, and when he realized that we were here, he came to find us. It was at about the same time as when I had finally pieced together the real story, and realized what a fucking bitch my mother was and what a fucking ass hole her boyfriend was. All they ever did was fuck and get drunk. One of them would have a job for a few weeks, but inevitably they'd get fired or they would quit.
My father was probably horrified with me at first. I drank, I stole, I slept around, I smoked, and was altogether an unpleasant person. Still am, really, except that I quit smoking and having fucked anyone in about a month. My father was the only person who had ever made me feel bad about what I did. He didn't even have to try, it was just the looks on his face that got me. But old habits die hard.
But, anyway, to make a long story short, my father offered to let me come live with him. I hated getting smacked around by both my mother and her boyfriend (at least with her boyfriend I started to hit back), was tired of hearing their constant moaning while they fucked on the couch, and didn't like that I was hungry a lot even when I did manage to steal food. So I went with him.
And found out another reason for why my mother left him. My father's house was not occupied solely by him, but by he and his boyfriend. My mother didn't leave him because he had a boyfriend, though; she just could tell that he wasn't as straight as she had thought when she first married him. They had married because she was pregnant, and my father didn't want to disgrace anyone and also wanted to make sure that she and I didn't end up on the streets. The only reason I know any of this is because I've wanted to know the whole story, and so I've gone through these boxes in the basement when no one else is home. And one of them was full of letters. And it told the entire story.
So my father's a fucking fag. I reacted badly, of course, but I've gotten used to it. Except that my father's boyfriend wants me to think of him as a "step-dad". What the fuck? If I already have a father, I don't need a fucking step-father. I don't mind him, I've gotten over them being queers and together, but I'm never gonna call him "step-dad".
No one's home. They both have jobs after all. I'm sure it'll give them a heart-attack to walk in and find that I'm home. I never get home before they do. I get home a lot earlier than I would when I lived with my mother and her bastard boyfriend, but that's no suprise. Whenever I used to walk in, they'd be going at it on the couch, sometimes even with some random third person they'd gotten off the streets. No wonder I did my best to not come home. Either that, or they'd be drunk and they'd both start beating on me. When I was about 13 years old I finally started fighting back against the fucking bastard, but even though I hated my mother I couldn't bring myself to actually hit the bitch.
Towerz is the only one who knows about my family situation. I'm not letting anyone else know that I live with my faggy father and his boyfriend. Towerz never mentions it, 'cause he knows that I'm embarrassed by it. He also knows that's why I never invite him to come over to my house or anything like that. I can handle that my father's fucking another man, and I can handle that Towerz knows this, but I don't want him to meet my father and his boyfriend.
I make my way upstairs, and into my room. I haven't had my own room since my mother left my father. I lie down on the bed and kick my shoes off. One of them rolls under the fucking bed somehow, but I don't move to retrieve it. I'm gonna take a nap. A damnably long nap. And no fucking shoe is gonna keep me from it.
Less Than Known
By Cradlerobber Speedo-kun
I didn't even say anything to Towerz. Just found him, grunted slightly, and then walked away. And he followed. Some people would say that he's my lapdog, but he sure as hell isn't. He's just a good friend. Friend. What a funny fucking comment in the universe of Jay Neeling.
We moved down the sidewalk in silence. As predicted, his car is out of commission. He didn't even have to say so, I could just tell since he didn't try to lead me to it. So we wandered off in the direction of my house, and he came along even though he knew that I wasn't gonna invite him in, even though his house is on the other side of the fucking town.
Towerz is probably the person I'm closest to. Not that I'd admit that to anyone out loud. People might think I'm a fucking fag if I ever said that. I like girls, obviously. They have nice curves, usually will listen to you bitch about stuff if they care about you in the slightest, and are obviously great for fucking. The idea of getting something jammed up my ass does not appeal to me in the least. If sex is a pain in the ass, you're just doing it wrong.
We arrive at my house, and I turn to Towerz, "We're going to that keg party tomorrow." It's not a question, it's more of an order than anything else. Doesn't mean he has to go, just that I'd prefer he would. He nods very slightly and turns away, walking back the way we came without so much as a good-bye. He'll probably go to the party; lots of drunk people means lots of people who aren't gonna realize that you're picking their pocket, not groping them. He's the eldest of four, his father works graveyard shifts to try to feed them, and his mother is dead; he needs all the money he can get. The only reason he ever had a car was because he fixed it himself.
I turn back towards the house and mount the cheery yellow front steps. The entire house is painted a cheery yellow. It annoys the fuck out of me sometimes. But I don't say anything to my father about it. It's better than where I was just a year ago.
If people were to see my house, go inside and look around, they'd wonder why I'm so fucked up. They'd think I was just some middle class brat who rebelled out of fucking boredom. It's a nice little house, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs, a kitchen, dining room, and a TV room downstairs. In the basement there's the laundry room, and a half-bathroom. But I've only been here about a year. I left my mother the instant I realized that my father hadn't abandoned us afterall and was actually living in the area.
When I was little, only about three or four years old, my mother and I ditched my father. At the time I thought he had left us, but I finally figured out that wasn't true last year. He was actually in the hospital. My mother found a guy she liked better, and so we left the house and moved in with her boyfriend. I don't know what happened to my father in all those intervening years, but at some point he moved to Degrassi, and when he realized that we were here, he came to find us. It was at about the same time as when I had finally pieced together the real story, and realized what a fucking bitch my mother was and what a fucking ass hole her boyfriend was. All they ever did was fuck and get drunk. One of them would have a job for a few weeks, but inevitably they'd get fired or they would quit.
My father was probably horrified with me at first. I drank, I stole, I slept around, I smoked, and was altogether an unpleasant person. Still am, really, except that I quit smoking and having fucked anyone in about a month. My father was the only person who had ever made me feel bad about what I did. He didn't even have to try, it was just the looks on his face that got me. But old habits die hard.
But, anyway, to make a long story short, my father offered to let me come live with him. I hated getting smacked around by both my mother and her boyfriend (at least with her boyfriend I started to hit back), was tired of hearing their constant moaning while they fucked on the couch, and didn't like that I was hungry a lot even when I did manage to steal food. So I went with him.
And found out another reason for why my mother left him. My father's house was not occupied solely by him, but by he and his boyfriend. My mother didn't leave him because he had a boyfriend, though; she just could tell that he wasn't as straight as she had thought when she first married him. They had married because she was pregnant, and my father didn't want to disgrace anyone and also wanted to make sure that she and I didn't end up on the streets. The only reason I know any of this is because I've wanted to know the whole story, and so I've gone through these boxes in the basement when no one else is home. And one of them was full of letters. And it told the entire story.
So my father's a fucking fag. I reacted badly, of course, but I've gotten used to it. Except that my father's boyfriend wants me to think of him as a "step-dad". What the fuck? If I already have a father, I don't need a fucking step-father. I don't mind him, I've gotten over them being queers and together, but I'm never gonna call him "step-dad".
No one's home. They both have jobs after all. I'm sure it'll give them a heart-attack to walk in and find that I'm home. I never get home before they do. I get home a lot earlier than I would when I lived with my mother and her bastard boyfriend, but that's no suprise. Whenever I used to walk in, they'd be going at it on the couch, sometimes even with some random third person they'd gotten off the streets. No wonder I did my best to not come home. Either that, or they'd be drunk and they'd both start beating on me. When I was about 13 years old I finally started fighting back against the fucking bastard, but even though I hated my mother I couldn't bring myself to actually hit the bitch.
Towerz is the only one who knows about my family situation. I'm not letting anyone else know that I live with my faggy father and his boyfriend. Towerz never mentions it, 'cause he knows that I'm embarrassed by it. He also knows that's why I never invite him to come over to my house or anything like that. I can handle that my father's fucking another man, and I can handle that Towerz knows this, but I don't want him to meet my father and his boyfriend.
I make my way upstairs, and into my room. I haven't had my own room since my mother left my father. I lie down on the bed and kick my shoes off. One of them rolls under the fucking bed somehow, but I don't move to retrieve it. I'm gonna take a nap. A damnably long nap. And no fucking shoe is gonna keep me from it.