The Artist

Mr whatever

I LOOK AT my earlobe through the mirror, stunned I could pull it off. The person in the mirror looks back at me, unflinching. I fucking did it. I grin, proud of my accomplishment. Needles aren't a big thing to me. With my appointment to the piercing parlour, I had to find a place with good reviews from the health inspector before I got pierced.

My Dad would've murmured, that looks like drugs, Spike.
Or.
He would've said something like, I don't know whether he's still standing to pee.
Regardless, he's not very…welcoming to things out of 'boy tradition.'

I sigh.

The thing with my father is that he's private. Way too private and he barely shows much emotion. My mother is very much different. She's too dramatic and vibrant, if I can say. Still, I've never met them unless it was important.

My mother calls sometimes, just to call for attention but I never particularly pay attention when she does. My grandfather and her butt heads many times but Mort really does care for her. I can feel it.

I clip my earring back into my left earlobe. It shines against the sunlight and I look at it in awe and disbelief. My right earlobe isn't pierced. I already felt nauseous over my left lobe and the piercing guy had suggested I come back the next day for my right earlobe to get pierced. I didn't return.

Standing up, I walk to the bed  where my dark green whoopee cap sits patiently on top and I take it, taking a deep breath as I put it on. School hasn't started yet and I'm comfortable on that.

My grandfather, Mort, is army retired. He also isn't fond of things out of boy tradition but he fully supports my sexuality and artistic side. The difference, however, is that this piercing is out of boy tradition. So I'm hiding it.

I decide to slide down the railings when I look at the staircase and I quickly go to the kitchen to make myself five sandwiches before walking up the stairs again.

Midway, the staircase creaks and I run to my room immediately before my grandfather calls me back. I ignore him and close my room softly shut, putting on a night gown before going into my bathroom, closing the door as well.

I hear my bedroom door open when my grandfather calls,  "come out here, Spike."

I go towards the shower and open the tap, letting the water run when I reply, "Gramps?!"

My voice is rough and hoarse as usual, because I barely get much sleep. Mort's voice is usually just the same but he's an elderly. He's close to his seventies with grey to white hair, a glowering look with a cane on his hand. Still, he looks like an infamous bachelor so it's given.

I could feel him narrowing his eyes as his scowl grows. "Out. Now!"

I shut off the water when my blonde streak of hair falls to my face, blowing it away momentarily before it falls back to my face. I open the door to walk out and step back before him.

"What the…" he says, his eyes slightly widening as he looks at my earlobe before scowling, "get rid of that, I know you're as clean as my old sniper."

I grunt, shrugging it off. "I don't know whether I should be impressed or what." I snort. He knows I won't take it off, I'm stubborn like that. He looks away from me and pauses to look at his hands rubbing together.

I know he notices the bags under my eyes and I'm grateful he keeps silent about it. It's not something I usually talk about. My mother has tried therapist over therapist before giving up and going back to her work.

"Be sick. I just got a call from your father. He's prepared a visit a month later." He says, scoffing. He doesn't approve of anything related to my father besides myself.