It’s been around so long it shouldn’t still work as well as it does if at all. But it does work. It does. And if it ain’t broke, why not use the thing that works?
I’m filled with the sudden, roiling, self-destructive urge to tell my mum to piss off.
I have to swallow that down, stuff it back inside my voice box and bolt the lid so it can’t spring out unexpectedly. Getting angry and lashing out at Mum would be pointless and ultimately boring. I’ve lost the ability to be shocked about anything she says or does. I used to let myself get upset and resentful. But in the last year or so, fury and hurt has finally given way to tedium and numbness.
I’m not sure if it’s better to feel less, to feel nothing much at all, but it certainly makes things easier to shrug off and let go of.
Or maybe, I’ve accidentally mastered emotional repression.Goals.
I comply with my mum’s silent request for me to sit on the bed next to her. She’ll just kick up a fuss if I don’t. Better to give in and get out as soon as possible than to let her start a proper argument.
I might not be as angry as I used to be, but I have a temper that’s gotten me into plenty of trouble in the past. It’s another thing Mum and I share. Our fuses are cataclysmic once ignited.
My temper got me expelled when I was thirteen and then again when I was fifteen. I ended up going to a state school in Danger because none of the private schools would take me after the second expulsion. Personally, I think me not being allowed back into any private schools had more to do with the other parents not wanting their children to associate with a boy whose father got himself banged up.
I didn’t mind going to a state school with forty children per class and teachers who spent more time trying to keep their students from starting fires with Bunsen burners and graffitiing the tables and hurting themselves by pretending to be “well hard” than actually teaching. Being in a school like that made it easier to blend into the background and keep mostly to myself. The other students themselves were no better or worse than the ones at my private schools had been.
Teenagers are teenagers, whatever social class they’re supposed to be a part of. Some are twats. Most are just trying to get through the days until freedom comes, and real life supposedly starts.
I didn’t have much in the way of friends at my state school. But I didn’t have many friends at any of my private schools either. I had even fewer after my father’s deceptions were uncovered, and the truth came thundering down on top of us, exploding our lives into a million jagged pieces and scorching the earth beneath our feet.
Obviously, no one knew about OI or what my father had been doing, but the social scandal of him going to prison was enough to screw me at my private schools.
Mum tries to take my hand in hers. I straighten my back and pointedly keep both of my hands clasped in my lap. I’ll give her a lot but not everything. It’s difficult to explain, but with people like her it’s the small things that matter. Subtle action over boldly spoken words.
Mum narrows her racoon eyes at me in contemplation. I can practically hear the rusty, hangover-clogged wheels turning inside her mind. I don’t have any interest in what she’s thinking. I’m almost certain it will be bad for me.
I notice a red mark on her neck that I hadn’t seen before. There are faint teeth marks along the edges of the mark. I’m guessing it came from another of her admirers. It’s not like I care if she wants to get off with every bloke in a one-hundred-mile radius. I just wish she’d choose one who was competent enough to look after both himself and her at the same time.
“I know you’re upset with me,” Mum says, her voice like woven silk. She sounds impressively aware for how blitzed she still looks.
Even though I should really know better than to respond, I do it anyway. Because who needs self-restraint? I’m twenty-four; there’s still time for me to grow into a better person. Next year. Maybe.
“We passed upset about fifty stops back. We have now reached the station called ‘try to make it through the morning without choking on your own sick, and I will be moderately impressed.’” I pump a fisted hand up and down, throwing in a sarcastic, “Choo choo.” Mostly for my own sense of fun.
Mum doesn’t appreciate my attempt at humour, which is a real shame because I am hilarious.
“Love, please.” She gives me one of her censuring looks. It’s still pretty effective despite the fact she currently resembles a doll that’s recently been used as a toilet brush.
“Please what?” I ask, unable to hide my belligerence.
Mum brings a hand up to her face and rubs her fingers over the patch of skin between her eyebrows, letting out a short, tired sigh.
My eyes are naturally drawn to her eyebrows. They’ve been plucked to within an inch of their lives. I’m surprised she hasn’t just gone the full hog and waxed them off entirely. She could draw them on with one of those eyebrow pencils or however people do it.
I don’t know. That stuff is advanced level. I don’t know where people learn to do makeup things properly. If it were me, then I would have to start watching YouTube tutorials again. Or maybe not. Last time I got sidetracked by a video titled, “How to Domesticate a Crocodile in Ten Easy Steps.” I mean, did I want to know how to domesticate a crocodile? Yes. Yes, I did. Who wouldn’t want that information?
There was a follow-up to the crocodile video called, “How to Ride a Shark in Nine Easy Steps.” It was two hours long. Did I watch the whole thing while sitting in the dark on my bed at four o’clock in the morning? Of course, I did. What else am I doing with my life? I also went through two packs of Oreos, like the professional night snacker I am.
Both videos reminded me of my dad. I still have a whole load of wildlife-documentary DVDs lying around somewhere. Dad and I used to watch them together on the small television in his study. We’d sit together on the battered green sofa that rests against the far wall and share the bag of Skittles or Maltesers he’d snuck into his bottom desk drawer at some point.
We could have used the bigger television in the living room, but that would have ruined the illusion we were hiding from Mum, who usually forbade Dad from letting me watch things she thought would give me nightmares.
Mum knew what Dad and I were doing. But pretending she didn’t was part of what made it fun.
My dad wasn’t one of those parents who forced themselves to sit through Disney films with their kid. Since I was really little, I’d known if I was watching something with my dad, then it was going to involve either wildlife, history, or survival. Sometimes all three would make an appearance, and Dad would shush me if I asked too many questions during it. To be fair to Dad, I had a lot of questions. It was probably smart of him to cut me off at the pass.
Mum closes her eyes and breathes in deeply.
