Saturday
Dad called home and told Rodrick to drive us to the hospital. He sounded like he gave up on life.
I've read Reddit threads online and I bet he's starting to have depression because of all this. I mean, I feel like I'm starting to get crazy but I don't want a therapist ratting me out to the penitentiary. So I guess for now I'll have to stick with self deprecating comments and r/dankmemes to cheer me up.
Rodrick forced me to get in the van, but not like the shotgun seat I'd expected. He stuffed me in the trunk with his instruments and crusty socks. I'm sick and tired of him acting like I'm in middle school! He's studying for his SAT's, so when can he give half a rat's ass and treat me like a decent human being?
Before I could complain, he slammed the door shut and cranked up his death metal music to the max that would probably shatter the eardrums of every kid in a twenty foot radius.
The ride was disgusting, lemme tell you. With every speed bump he (deliberately, I swear) ran over, I'd slam face-first into his musky socks or drum set. God, Kleenex and Febreeze existed for a reason.
When we arrived at the hospital, I nearly puked before I leapt out the door and snapped.
Fuck Rodrick and his shitty pothead breath. All that smoke must've screwed up his brain and made him think it was socially acceptable to keep his nasty boxers sprouting mushrooms and goo in the back of his truck. People like my brother are the exact reason why the possession of marijuana and mango flavored juul pods are a felony.
I swore at him like how Dad screamed when he accidentally shot himself in the balls with a nailgun, but without the testicle surgery. That's why we never had a sibling after Manny, for your information.
But Rodrick — surprisingly — shouted at me that it was somehow my fault that I got mom kidnapped because I was too busy Fortnite grinding to go shopping with her. What the hell was I even supposed to do against a cartel with a willingness to dispose of bodies in cold blood? I'm fourteen, and there's more of a chance that I'd end up in a tub of ice water missing my kidney than able to fight off kidnappers with my bare hands.
He must've lost the argument because he laughed and told me to go fuck myself in typical Rodrick fashion. Joke's on him, though, since it's anatomically impossible according to my Bio teacher. I also didn't want anything shoved up my poop chute, so good luck with that.
I wasn't done yet. Normally, I'd let it go and chill on Among Us, but I was hyped up on adrenaline and god knows what else and was looking for blood.
So that's why I threw the first punch.
And that's also why I'm here, right now, with my face and everything wrapped in bandages and pumped with so many painkillers that I can barely grip the pen with my free hand.
I would've thought I'd be able to check off "get into a fistfight on the hospital parking lot" off my bucket list, but Rodrick played dirty. My family jewels felt like they'd been viciously ripped away by America's Most Wanted and I felt like a black and blue everywhere else. Like father, like son, I guess.
Dad visited me after yelling at Rodrick for a solid ten minutes. Probably because we were almost arrested, rather than actually taking responsibility for raising the hellspawn I call a brother. He came in with a frown, which makes him look a decade older, and sat down near the bed.
Before I could get a word out, he told me that my balls were fine and that the doctors said I'd heal up in a week.
Then he told me how disappointed he was for being so irresponsible and what was I thinking when I decided to feed Many fifty times the recommended dosage of prescribed sedative-hypnotics and kill him from the overdose and how dare I increase his health insurance premiums in these trying times?
To be honest, I don't know what he meant by the last point, so I could give less of a crap about it.
It wasn't my fucking fault that Manny got past the child-proof cap and helped himself to the catalyst of one of the worst epidemics in this country. My parents blame me for everything and I hate it. It's always me who's the black sheep. Never Rodrick and his poor attempts at a grow op or Manny's benzo addiction that was dad's fault in the first place.
The painkillers made my head fuzzy, so I couldn't exactly cuss out Dad, but I did have enough energy to move my left hand just a little into a rude gesture. Before I could see his reaction, everything just blurred together as I fell asleep.
A/N:
Wow! It's been two years since the last update. Because of this, you may have noticed that the writing is a lot different than before. Let me know if there's anything that's off.
I'd like to thank dowakfan69 for taking the time to make an account and personally message me how much they unironically loved this. Your words inspired me to write this update!
also, to the anon who told me to go kys, lmao suck my ass
