Relative issues (On hold)

Chapter 8.

I turned my head toward Lara very slowly, my eyes becoming dryer by the second with how wide they opened. Fixing my stare on her, I let out a small, shaky breath as I clutched my brightly coloured work pants in my fists. Her stature shrunk instantly. Like a child, she pulled her shoulders up to her neck as she placed the paper on my desk and took a small step back. The muscles in my forearms flexed in diagonal lines that ran from my wrists toward my elbows as I tensed my body. The veins on my hands and arms bulged.

With a deep breath, I took the note from the table and stuffed it into my pocket, not saying a word as I mindfully controlled my breathing. Had I been fourteen, Lara would beyond a doubt have received a punch. Had I been fourteen, I would have lost all control and lashed out loudly and violently.

"Excuse me for a moment," I spoke softly as I stood up from my chair.

"Jayden I thought it was trash, I was just trying to help clean-" she blurted out.

In a quick motion, I held my hand out in front of her. "I'll be right back..." I mumbled.

The staff toilet smelled of disinfectant and rubber gloves as I burst through the door. Clasping the faucet, I stared into the drain. The black hole led far down into the facility's pipe system, connecting to a complex system of plumbing. As tears clouded my vision, they eventually fell into the drain, dripping down my eyelashes or the tip of my nose. A nauseating cramp stirred in my abdomen. Trayvon Jones, Chicago. Only a few hours away.

"FUCK!" I screamed at the top of my lungs before sinking to the floor. I trembled. Sweat broke from my skin like pearls and with quivering hands, rubbed the flesh until it grew red and irritated. I hadn't been this emotionally unstable since Jamal took off. Not since I was a teen had I felt such a persistent urge to lash out and use my fists to express my state of mind. It was like I was back in my old mindset of an ambivalent identity crisis, torn between being conceited because of insecurity while also feeling an immense sense of self-loathing and believing my personality to be fraudulent; a self-defence mechanism.

Cupping my hands under the faucet, I filled them with cold water that I splashed on my face. Droplets trickled down my elbows, tickling my skin as I dried my eyes and cheeks with a paper towel. My hands were shaking slightly. As I confronted my reflection in the mirror, I met a distraught face. My expression was foggy, my brows deeply furrowed and my eyes foggy. To put it simply: I looked completely gone. The face in the mirror reminded me of how Micah had looked when he stumbled into the frat house after fighting with Kennedy after he revealed his pregnancy. At that time, he seemingly looked right through me; his only goal had been being comforted as he pulled me up the stairs.

When I reentered the office space, Lara had crept back to her desk like a dog tucking its tail and folding back its ears. She sat, slouched over as she stared at the screen. The coffee she had made for me still stood at my desk. Before sitting down, I took the time to discard it and brew a new cup; one that had not come in contact with her lips. While I adored sweet drinks, I never found sweet coffee enjoyable. At most, I could endure it with a splash of non-dairy milk, but no sugars. With the freshly brewed coffee in hand, I sat down at my desk and swirled my mouse around to make the screen come back alive.

"I'm sorry, Jayden-" Lara began.

"It's fine," I interrupted her. "Let's drop it. It's no big deal."

She stayed quiet, turning back around in her chair. I rubbed my temples; a headache was brewing.

⚥ ⚥ ⚥

As I parked in the driveway of our home, I hesitated to go inside. My body felt stiff and achy. Trayvon Jones, Chicago. Mom's new kids looked completely different from me. What would my dad's kids look like if he had any? Every thought felt like a heavy swing, beating me up from the inside. If I went in like this, would Micah notice if my eyes were red? Would I start crying if I spoke up? My reflection in the rearview mirror was unattractive, to put it simply. Full of qualm and uneasiness, getting any good rest was impossible and dark circles shrouded my eyes in weariness. A lump in my throat made me doubt my ability to speak without my voice breaking.