Cut Up Angels, chapter 2
I lie in my bed, staring at the ceiling, willing myself to sleep. The clock reads 2:48; last time I checked it said 1:05. And I can guess I'll be looking at it for the rest of the night if I don't fall asleep. Knowing it's hopeless, I walk through the small house and into the kitchen- the same place I'd gone many nights in my many years in this house. I pour myself a glass of water and go outside. It's warm out - then again, it always is for southern California. I sit on my front stoop, legs outstretched, looking up at the starry night sky.
I glance over at your house. Hopeful. It's dark, but I can see a faint light on in your room. I walk across the small strip of grass, patches of it brown and dead, tapping lightly on your window. Like I'd done so many times before, when we were little. Some things never change.
It takes you a few minutes, and I see your figure moving around your room. I wonder if you're covering something up. Eventually you open the window for me and pull me into your room, this time making sure that your sleeves stay down by your thumbs.
I stand in your all-too familiar room for a minute, shifting my wieght from one foot to another. You lean against the opposite wall and pull out a cigarette. Suddenly, I feel like an awkward little kid. I'm standing in my PJ's: my brother's old Chuck Taylor T-shirt (that fits like a dress on my scrawny figure), flanell pajama bottoms, bare feet, dirty blonde hair messily tied back in a crooked pony tail. And there you are, taking a light.
I push politeness and insecurity out of the way and carelessly flop down on your bed, the comforter and blankets billowing up beside me. Suddenly, I'm exhausted. You lay down next to me, a little slower. It's mostly dark, except for the light orange glow from the tip of your cigarette.
"Why are you here?" You ask. Your first words spoken to me since before the 'eyeliner' incident.
I don't say anything for a minute. "Because... You never answered my question." It's true, he never did.
You take a long drag on your cigarette and exhale a puff of gray smoke and say nothing, so I continue.
"I mean... You've always been like the older brother for us. We've always looked up to you... In fact, you ARE the older brother."
"You're only younger than me by a day," You say.
"Doesn't feel like it.." I mutter.
Suddenly there's a loud banging on your door, which I'm guessing is locked. We both freeze, the cigarette dangling dangerously from your lips. There's another bang, then:
"HEY, KID, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO IN THERE?! OR ARE YOU JUS' SLITTIN' UP YOUR WRISTS AGAIN? LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER."
Your step-dad. I wince. Then footsteps, and your mom's timid voice:
"Frank, shut up, you know he's stopped doing that. Just come to bed, okay?"
I hear them walk away. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
Not knowing exactly what to do, I slowly get up and head for the window before it gets any more awkward. As I'm halfway out, one leg outside, one leg inside, I hear your voice. "Wait."
I pause, turn to face you, still in the same poisition on the bed. Your eyes are squeezed shut. Then, in a small, weak voice, you whisper:
"That's why I do it."
I glance over at your house. Hopeful. It's dark, but I can see a faint light on in your room. I walk across the small strip of grass, patches of it brown and dead, tapping lightly on your window. Like I'd done so many times before, when we were little. Some things never change.
It takes you a few minutes, and I see your figure moving around your room. I wonder if you're covering something up. Eventually you open the window for me and pull me into your room, this time making sure that your sleeves stay down by your thumbs.
I stand in your all-too familiar room for a minute, shifting my wieght from one foot to another. You lean against the opposite wall and pull out a cigarette. Suddenly, I feel like an awkward little kid. I'm standing in my PJ's: my brother's old Chuck Taylor T-shirt (that fits like a dress on my scrawny figure), flanell pajama bottoms, bare feet, dirty blonde hair messily tied back in a crooked pony tail. And there you are, taking a light.
I push politeness and insecurity out of the way and carelessly flop down on your bed, the comforter and blankets billowing up beside me. Suddenly, I'm exhausted. You lay down next to me, a little slower. It's mostly dark, except for the light orange glow from the tip of your cigarette.
"Why are you here?" You ask. Your first words spoken to me since before the 'eyeliner' incident.
I don't say anything for a minute. "Because... You never answered my question." It's true, he never did.
You take a long drag on your cigarette and exhale a puff of gray smoke and say nothing, so I continue.
"I mean... You've always been like the older brother for us. We've always looked up to you... In fact, you ARE the older brother."
"You're only younger than me by a day," You say.
"Doesn't feel like it.." I mutter.
Suddenly there's a loud banging on your door, which I'm guessing is locked. We both freeze, the cigarette dangling dangerously from your lips. There's another bang, then:
"HEY, KID, WHO THE HELL ARE YOU TALKING TO IN THERE?! OR ARE YOU JUS' SLITTIN' UP YOUR WRISTS AGAIN? LITTLE MOTHERFUCKER."
Your step-dad. I wince. Then footsteps, and your mom's timid voice:
"Frank, shut up, you know he's stopped doing that. Just come to bed, okay?"
I hear them walk away. My heart sinks to the bottom of my stomach.
Not knowing exactly what to do, I slowly get up and head for the window before it gets any more awkward. As I'm halfway out, one leg outside, one leg inside, I hear your voice. "Wait."
I pause, turn to face you, still in the same poisition on the bed. Your eyes are squeezed shut. Then, in a small, weak voice, you whisper:
"That's why I do it."
