On the floor with booze.
Tarantula butt tattoo.
Don’t remember you.
I’ve got some sort of girlfriend now. I think that’s what she thinks she is to me…I like her but she thinks to much. We kissed at some party. I kissed her and she kept looking around and fading into the walls, soft and cold.
That’s why I kissed her. We both know how to blend into the background. She wasn’t saying a damn thing and it was beautiful. That’s another thing about Mom: she never shuts the hell up. She never lets the silence stay pure. Silence is the most important thing sometimes.
Reggie never talks. He only talks when someone asks him a question, and they have to direct it towards only him. Reggie has so much he wants to say, I can see it in his fat shiny face.
He’s not nearly as fat as he used to be. I can see those cheeks getting less round. The purple smudges under his eyes are growing too. They show the other kind of weight he’s starting to carry. The weight of being lost. Everyone has it, you just have to look close enough.
Mom covers her’s with cream the color of her pale, pink skin. No blue and purple, that shows weakness. Mine are pretty bad but they scream to the world, uncovered, and puffy sometimes. I wonder where Dad always goes.
I’m just coming home from kissing some more. Nice silent house right after some nice silent kisses would be the greatest. I keep thinking about how great that would be all the way home, just listening to my feet hitting the pavement.
No cars in the driveway.
I go to my room planning on napping in this contentment. I get my music nice and loud, to do not disturb level, and lay back to stare out the back window. Then Mom arrives. Mom and Reggie actually.
She’s talking on the phone. It’s only muffled noises through these walls though. I hear the door open and she’s still in the driveway. I sit up to watch her. She looks concerned and tired.
Little footsteps make their way up the staircase. My door drags across the carpet. I turn around to see Reggie silently crying in the doorway. He’s expressionless, just fat tears rolling down his cheeks again.
We look at each other. Then he turns around and walks down the hall without a sound. There’s burping and splashing and then finally a toilet flush. He walks back into my room, seeing if I’ve moved and if Mom has shut up yet. I see something on his chin. Without breaking eye contact, Reggie slowly pulls his hand to his shiny face. With one swipe he cleans his chin on the back of his jacket sleeve. I must’ve blinked wrong because then he left.
I suddenly have to piss. I run down the hall to the toilet and the smell of vomit fils my nose. It burns and makes my eyes water. I pee as fast as possible so I can go try and sleep, but now all I smell is Reggie’s rejected happiness.
I have to shave all the time now, gotta keep up the appearance. It’s all so pointless though. Sometimes I see Reggie with the razor. He’s becoming a swimming champ. Mom brings him to the pool nearly every day. She says it’s easier on the joints. I’ve never heard of that shit.
I go for exhausting runs, play football, throw that same throw over and over until it’s thrown correctly. I want Reggie to get so good at swimming that he feels the pain of repetition. The feeling of having your muscles take over your mind and there’s nothing you have to think about: muscle memory. The paradise of memorization.
I hope Reggie finds that in something. It’s so much easier to deal with Mom and Dad that way.
It’s great watching him at the community pool. He looks confident, more confident than ever. The splashes he can make cause all the kids to go wild. He could start a riot no problem.
And any smart girl would fall for him. I can see those long, curled eye lashes. They drape over his glossy, green eyes.
One day Reggie. One day they’ll all be at your fucking feet. I can see it so clearly. You just have to try at it.