Different colored minds

homeless

JOE POV

I'm sitting on my bed when the door to my room opens.
"We got an email from your teacher saying you're failing your math and chemistry classes."
I gulp. I've been waiting for this. The repercussions.
"What happened?"
I wish I knew. But I don't. And there's nothing to explain either. That's it. I'm just failing.
"Well," my dad's arms are crossed against his chest. I can see anger bubbling up behind his eyes.
"I, I don't really know."
"You don't know? Why didn't you ask us? Why didn't you ask for help? Why are we only finding this out right now when I'm paying good money to put you there?"
"I,"
"I'm disappointed in you."
I don't know what to say. Just the other day I sat for five hours in front of my computer trying to figure out those problems. I've never felt so helpless in my life.
There's so much I have to remember in order to succeed. Where I'm supposed to find assignments. Where I'm supposed to post assignments. Where I'm supposed to go to discuss with other students. No matter how hard I try I'm always playing pick up. And yeah, I gave up a few weeks ago on my math. I haven't been turning in the homework. I know he's right. I should be reaching out for help from them. They're my parents. But anything is to be preferred over my father calling me a disappointment.
"Anything you wanna say? Anything you wanna claim responsibility for? I could kick you out of this house right now if I wanted to, what will you do then?"
"I don't know, probably starve and be homeless."
"Are you smart assing me son!" The anger is bubbling up within him now. He's not going to leave me alone. Somehow I'm just going to have to get through it.
"I don't have to keep you in my house after this year. You're on your own. Instead of letting you waste my money on classes you can't pass."
I can't say anything. It is his money. It has always been his money.

It's not like I haven't thought about running before. But what's the point in running away? What does it accomplish? It's not like it'll get better. Then I really will be alone. I'll be deserted in a place I will never be able to call home.
"Are you even listening to me?" He's getting closer to my bed. All I can do is sit looking down at my leg. There's no point in fighting this one. He's right. I failed. And he's right. It cost him money he would rather spend on something else. Someone else. And if I say the wrong thing I'll end up in a homeless shelter. This argument is not worth being homeless.
"Hello?" He's shouting. His face is turning red.
"I'm sorry dad." My fists are clenched at my side.
"Well sorry doesn't cut it. Sometimes you just need to grow up."

It's bullshit. I know that. I, of all people, know how much I'm putting in. And how inadequate it is. I know I just lost my freedom. That's the next thing that always goes first. I can't see anyone. I can't talk to anyone. I can't play video games. I can't listen to music. It will all go slowly. But it will go. I can feel it.

And then I'll be stuck in a house with a man with a raging temper and a woman who doesn't know how to make it better, and myself, with one leg left and a bunch of failed classes I don't want to retake.

He's leaving the room. Im alone on my bed now.

If you're up there God, I could really use some guidance.

My hand is shaking. I haven't found a good wall to plant it in yet. There's no way out. And now I'm going to lose everything slowly. I sigh and then drop to the ground. At least I should start working out again. That will help.

And I do, I do until the urge to kill my father subsides. The urge to end my suffering culminates. And that's the scariest part. When it culminates and I realize I can't kill my father. I can't get out of this house until I graduate. I should kill myself.

The thoughts are cold and hard as stones. There's no way out of my pain except time. That's the only way I'm getting out of here alive. With time.

And for the first time in what feels like years I want to put on some music. My old record player sits covered in dust in the corner, Steven always picked the tunes to play.
I riffle through the records to find Johnny. Johnny cash.

I lay down and let the notes pump through my room. The old brassy notes overlapping on eachother. His voice warbles onto the mic and all of my thoughts disappear into the lyrics.

He didn't have a good life. I looked into it. Maybe he felt like I do. There's no option but forward. I have to keep going through this situation that I hate. I have to keep doing things that I hate. And at the end I have to be okay with the fucked up circumstances around me until I can get out. If I can get out.