Isolated (Ch 3)

It’s been five minutes of uncontrolled silence. Once I entered what should’ve felt like my home, felt like a courthouse. At the ripe age of 21, I’d figure that my absence, on my day off, shouldn’t have caused a riff but it did. I looked over at my dad across the table, he’s got his brows  furrowed and nodding his head. 

 

“So what did you guys do yesterday?” He inquired, looking up at me, and linking his fingers together. “I couldn’t figure the life of me why you would smell, so bad.” 

 

“Well why would that matter if I showered now?”  I retorted, shaking my head. 

 

“Because that stench is awfully specific, it smells like...” he paused for a moment, couldn’t tell if it was intentional or a loss for words. “skin.”

 

Yeah, well, not shit. We all have skin, we all have our own scent.

 

Sometimes I would wonder what mine is? 

 

Yes, me and him had sex. I wouldn’t for the life of me, confess to my sins for a holiday Catholic who doesn’t bother to go to church.

 

I rolled my eyes at him, saying flatly: “we went on a hike, found a small river to sit by. We’re in a middle of a heatwave.” 

 

“Hey! Don’t roll your eyes at me I’m just asking you a question. You don’t have to be a bitch about it. You’re just like your…”

 

And there it goes! You’re just like your mother, and if I was anything like my mother, I would’ve left this shithole years ago. He kept trailing on, a bombardment of accusations of drugs, telling me what a piece of shit my boyfriend is, how he could make himself useful in this society and provide for me. The typical ‘You know I pay to keep these lights on in this house and the least you can do is open up about your life so I can critique every last bit of it.’

 

 

Worst 10 minutes of my life. 

 

 

I texted him again, I couldn’t bear spending another night alone in my own home anymore. My dad stopped giving a shit about my boyfriend coming over, he doesn’t nearly complain as much as he adores my father.

 

Sometimes, I think they enjoy each other’s company more than my presence. My Love is always helping my father out, renovating, even down to the small things like doing the laundry.

 

To which my father would say, “You’re like the son I never had.” Or “you do more than she could  do, I hope you make an honest woman of her one day. A useful woman of Christ.” 

 

Honest woman.

 

As if there was a lick of honesty in this room, not even myself could be branded as a truth teller.

 

He’d respond, with crocodile tears like what my dad drank from 9-7. The false promises that helped him sleep at night, clutching the cheapest Vodka to boot, knowing his princess was safe. 

 

Let’s get this straight: I could watch you try things out at a mall store, you pick the most unflattering and patterned dress. 

 

My opinion? Absolutely not, that’s the most ugliest thing a Flash Fashion’s sweatshop could ever produce. 

 

I see your face glimmer with hope, that very gleam in your face that you said you haven’t seen in my own eyes for a very long time. 

 

Your smile is wider than the way those two-sizes-too-small pants. I look at how uncomfortable you are, and when I question it you just say: 

 

"Beauty is Pain."

 

I hold my tongue, and tell you that you look sexy. 

 

You don’t. You'd tell me I deserve better and I should trust my intuition. that it’s more than a crack in the windshield, It’s the ball that shatters the whole fucking thing. It was one slap, and it didn’t even hurt as much as him threatening to leave me. 

 

I’d like to imagine my Lover and I are the same. Twin flames, mirroring eachother.

 

He promises my dad something that doesn’t exist. A place in a rural nearby area with an in-law for my poor father. Have me be a stay at home more and to take care of my father when he retires officially.

 

Working under the table does have its perks, but I can’t shake the fear of him getting hurt and getting a small lump sum with a long-term disability.

 

He ran his gambit too many times when his was a teen, something I’d admire in his as a girl. Too many run-in’s with the law and a current warrant that he ran under a fake name had left him paranoid to get his driver’s license back. I still don’t know what he did fully and I’m too fearful to ask or even look it up. 

 

I had several family members show me, but I’d just dissociate each time. He’s not the same anymore. He’s quite the come-back kid.