By the way, there are some mistakes I normally wouldn't make because I wrote this awhile ago. Anyways, read on...
Luke
I yanked my shoes off and ran into the bathroom. I opened cabinets violently looking for gauze wrap or a band aid. My dad burst into the room.
"You're going to need help cleaning that," he murmured, in order to not upset me.
I scoffed and sat down on the toilet seat. He opened the cabinets and glanced at me warily. "What did you do?"
"Fell," I spat.
Sighing, he grabbed some rubbing alcohol out of the cabinet. He grabbed some toilet paper and ran it under the water. Then, pressed it to my knee tenderly. The scrape was large and pretty deep. He poured some rubbing alcohol on the paper. "This is going to sting," he informed me.
"I know," I replied. I bit my lip and tried not to cry out in pain as he pressed it to my knee.
He stopped and wrapped some gauze around it. "Better?" He asked and smiled.
"Yeah. Sure, whatever," I muttered and walked back to the guest room. I considered myself a guest. I wouldn't call it "my room" until it was officially mine. That is, if it ever was going to be "officially mine."
I sat down at the desk and laid my head on my hands. Life needed to change soon, before it was too late to get better. I wasn't tired, so sleeping wasn't an option. This town was starting to get on my nerves; there was nothing to do. I dumped my duffel bag onto the floor to see what I had brought. My IPod and phone were the only things remotely interesting. I grabbed my phone and turned it on. It buzzed what seemed thousands of times. I had fifteen new text messages and five missed calls.
I sighed and flipped through the texts, every one of them read something like, "Sorry about your mom." I tossed it aside. I didn't want to listen to music either.
I flopped onto the bed. When I heard a vibrating sound I groaned and looked at my phone. The screen was lighting up with a number I didn't know. I debated answering but gave in. "Hello?" I asked into the phone.
"Luke?" A gravely, male voice asked.
"Yeah, who's this?" I replied.
"Mitch," the voice answered. I scowled. Why would he be calling me? He had made my life a living hell when I was younger. He bullied me and I got suspended because of him. I punched him because he made fun of me for having braces. It all seemed pretty immature now, but I had never forgiven him.
"What?" I muttered.
"I wanted to say I'm sorry-," I hung up. If someone hates you and the only reason they call you is to say they're sorry about your dead mom, well, then there's something wrong. I didn't know what that something was but, it was something. Realizing I was confusing myself, I turned off my phone.
I stood up, pulled my shoes on, and ran out of the house. I jumped on my board and rode down to the gas station.
I wandered in and the guy at the counter glanced at me then looked away. He looked like he was about sixteen or seventeen. His face was pimply and he was wearing glasses with wire frames. I walked over to the drink station and grabbed the largest cup they had, filling it with a red Icee. I walked up to the counter and looked the guy in the eyes.
"That's two dollars and fifty cents," he said cautiously, as if I were going to blow up at him.
I set the money on the table and smiled, "I'm surprised you didn't give it to me for free. You know, considering my mom killed herself." Something had overcome me, if people were going to keep bugging me I should just take advantage of it.
He smirked, "Kid, I work here. I get paid with the money you give me. I'm not giving you free slushies."
"Why not? I'd give you a slushie if you found your mom dead in a bathtub," Honestly, didn’t even know if I had found her or not. Supposedly, I blacked out after whatever happened. I didn't really remember what happened that night at all.
He rolled his eyes, "Fine," he handed the money back to me.
I smiled, "Thanks..." I looked at his name tag. "Rick."
"You're awfully smiley for someone who found their mom dead in a bathtub," he said matter-of-factly.
I smirked and walked out of the gas station. Suddenly, I felt mad all over again. What had happened back there was a one time thing. Taking advantage of some teen at a gas station wasn't going to fix my problems. I had to realize that, or things would never get better.
I sat down on the curb and starting drinking the red, frothy liquid. Suddenly, Rick came out of the gas station. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He sat down next to me, "You want one?" he offered.
"No," I muttered.
He shrugged and lit it, taking a long drag and exhaling. "Isn't that illegal?" I questioned and took a big gulp of the slushie.
"It's one of the perks of working at a gas station," he muttered. "How old are you anyways?"
"Thirteen," I replied. "You?"
"Seventeen," he said.
I nodded. "Why are you talking to me?"
"I had nobody else to talk to," he murmured and shrugged his shoulders.
"Well, I'm not just somebody to talk to," I stood up. "I'm sick of people taking advantage of me." I grabbed my board and rolled down the street. People don't understand me. Most of them would never understand my current situation, so they shouldn't pretend they do.
What was up with that Rick kid anyways? Just coming and talking to me because there was 'nobody else to talk to'?
I jumped off the board and walked up the driveway. I walked into the garage and dropped the skateboard on the ground. I wandered inside where my dad was standing by the door. I looked up at him and took a drink of the slushie. "Come here," he said and started walking.
I reluctantly followed him. He sat down at the kitchen table and I sat across from him. "Where were you?" he questioned.
"Gas station," I replied and started slurping the slushie again.
"You can't just leave all the time. It's not going to fix anything. Maybe we should talk about this, you know about what happened? With your mother?"
I looked up at him and sipped the slushie, it was almost gone and was now making that annoying slurping noise when I drank from the straw.
He sighed, "What happened is...tragic. There are people you can talk to about how you're feeling."
I kept slurping, trying to ignore the fact that he wanted me to go to therapy. He grabbed the slushie from me. I scowled and crossed my arms over my chest. "I don't need therapy."
"That's not what I'm saying," he insisted.
"Basically," I snapped. "You hate my guts don't you? You just want to get rid of me and send me to some mental house. Right?"
"No," he gasped. "I don't hate you. It's just, I wish you would just talk about what happened that night. You have to remember some of it."
"I passed out; I don't remember what happened. I remember waking up on my bed and Mark telling me my mom was dead."
He exhaled deeply, "Maybe you'll remember eventually."
"I don't want to remember," I muttered and grabbed my slushie from him. I stuck the straw in my mouth.
"Why not?" he asked, as if he had finally got me to admit something amazing.
"My mom killed herself. It’s not something you really want to remember. Why don't you just ask Mark what happened?" I retorted with the straw in my mouth.
"I don't want to know how Mark felt that night, I want to know how you felt," he sighed.
"Why?" I asked.
"Can you just try not to be so difficult?" he asked bitterly.
"I'm not being difficult. I'm just wondering where this concern came from. This consistent nagging and constant panic is not necessary," I informed him.
"Okay, whatever Luke. Usually when people lose an important family member they rebel or become depressed."
"I'm not like those people," I whispered and walked out of the room. I felt tears blur my vision; I tilted my head up as if too make them slide back into my eyes. I blinked and one fell down my cheek; I brushed it away violently and trudged up the steps.
