"I know."
"You're an idiot."
"I know that too." Silence again.
"Sit down."
"What?"
"Sit," he repeats, pointing at the couch like he owns the place.
"I'll get the first aid kit."
I hesitate. Want to say no. Want to keep standing, stay angry, stay in control.
But I sit.
He disappears down the hall like it’s his place, and I exhale, trying to unclench my fists.
The bruises are blooming now. My cheek throbs.
My ribs ache every time I breathe too deep. But none of that compares to what’s eating me from the inside out.
I lied to him. I watched his face when I did it. And I feel like the biggest piece of shit alive.
He comes back with the little white box and tosses it onto the table next to us.
"We should make you a subscription card for this thing."
"Frequent flyer miles?"
"Yeah. Every five fights you get a free punch in the face."
I laugh. It hurts like hell.
He pulls out antiseptic, cotton pads, tape.
"You don't have to do this," I say.
"I don't want my dad bringing up another dinner table story about how 'Gio the stray dog' got into another mess."
I wince. "That bad?"
"You should hear what he calls you when you're not around."
Fantastic. Exactly what I needed after breaking someone's face. Very comforting, Rava.
Your family probably thinks I'm the antichrist.
And the messed-up part? It actually stings. More than I want it to. Now I'm wondering.
Do they sit around imagining scenarios where I'm the villain ruining their precious son? Do they picture me as some monster he needs saving from? Because I don't see them that way.
As much as I pretend I don't care, they've been in my head more than I realize. Their opinions. Their reactions.
I don't think I'm a bad person. Not at the core.
Yeah, I'm rough around the edges.
