Just a tiny little short one. A practice in second person, and a somewhat limbering up of neglected writing muscle..
Outgrown
You hurt her.
You just had to go and say it. You hurt your own mother. You always end up hurting each other. Since you can remember.
You can almost make out her faint weeping from the kitchen, if you lie real still and stop your breathing. Every now and then the low shushes of your old man rumble through the thin drywall; his consoling is soft but gruff.
You can't be in there, to make this right. To pat her shoulder, or call her momma, or lay your head on her nylon stockinged lap like some sacrifice. The way Soda always does. You caused this, but you've never been one who rectifies. Your presence always seems to make the fallouts worse. Besides, she's forever been a wallower of pain. Sometimes you think she likes it.
"Get to your room Darry..now," Dad said through gritted teeth. And you slipped away to go and drown in the shame he passed you like some grand old torch. But instead you find yourself swimming against it, and it feels like treading water.
You could never just say sorry. There's so much that burns on that one word. You're too angry all the time to truly mean it. And it scares you that you'll probably never forgive her. You'll never forget or forgive her for the things she did when you were little. But they were things she couldn't help, a little part of you speaks up.
It doesn't matter that her pills now keep her in check. You'll always see her for who she really is. Behind those warm brown eyes, the madness is never more than a skipped dose away, and you'll be damned before you're chained up ever again by her compulsions and a makeshift bedroom altar.
Are you the only one who can pick up on it? That she's spiraling back to that? Are you the only one in the family with eyes to see and a mind to remember?
You wish that school would just start up and you could leave for Stillwater. You've outgrown all this. Your tiny twin bed, your stupid wallpaper of cowboys and little lassos, your lousy neighborhood and even your family; maybe them most of all.
Soda glides into the room you share. Shakes his head as he starts rummaging through the dresser. You're pretty sure Soda would happily defend your mother even while she's dropping the electric toaster into his full bath. You watch him and resent his allegiance. And you envy him his devotion. So you'll pick a fight with him too.
You raise up halfway, resting on your elbows that you grind into the mattress. "What?" You say it rough, using your well practiced voice of a gang leader. "You think I care?"
"Uhh..pretty sure that's a nope." He doesnt stop looking through the drawer that's stuffed with all your folded shirts. He's wrinkling every one of them.
You keep going because you want his reaction. You force a bitter laugh. "Soda, you're one to talk. You're in deep shit with them all the time. You're the bad one."
He shrugs and slides the drawer closed. "Darry I ain't even said nothin' to you." And he hasn't. And you suddenly feel foolish. Soda's always had a way of extinguishing your fire, just as quickly and as easily as he can get you heated up. And boy, can he.
After finally wrangling on the shirt he wanted, he's looking at you. Full on. Then asks, in an honest kind of way, "But why you gotta go after Ma all the time?"
He's staring and waiting. You suddenly want to hurt him. For asking the question. But even more so for never knowing the damn answer.
So you stand up and shove him out of the way. Not hard. But you're bigger and it throws him off a little, so that he knocks his knee against the desk. His bad knee. He winces. And you feel like the dick that you know you are. That everyone in your life expects you to be. But it's only him that you can turn around and grab. It's only to him that you can immediately say, "Hey man, I'm real sorry," 'cause you'll always be sorry to hurt Soda.
Soda just nods. He knows the score. He won't retaliate when you're low and hurting like this. He's never been no bottom feeder.
So you leave your suffocating bedroom and snatch the keys off the wall hook. You're outta here, 'cause you already know the long night it's fixing to be when you turn around and come back home.
"I'm leaving" you shout out to anyone who might listen. "Adios," you shout to the sagging walls of this house. "I'm long gone," you shout to your miserable moaning mother, to Soda who just blatantly stole your favorite shirt, to your father who's busy counting out little white pills and still threatening to tan your hide. "G'bye," you whisper to your youngest brother somewhere high above, who's immersed in some comic book sitting on the eaves of the roof. And as you peel outta there, you spot him, wearing nothing of his own, only your faded hand-me-downs that you've long since grown out of.
And then you catch something. From where he stands leaning against the chimney, now dead center of your rearview mirror, Pony's giving you the peace sign.
It hits you in the ribs a little bit, somewhere on the front left side. And right before you round the corner, you stretch your arm out the window on a diesel breeze and you flash two fingers right back at him. You wonder if he even sees.
xXx
As always, I thank you kindly for reading!