' 𝗬𝗢𝗨 𝗦𝗘𝗡𝗗 𝗠𝗘 𝗦𝗪𝗜𝗡𝗚𝗜𝗡 ' › D. SWING

17.

𝙳𝙴𝙲𝙴𝙼𝙱𝙴𝚁 𝟸𝟺, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟻.
𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚊𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚛.

(𝙳𝙴𝚅𝙰𝙽𝚃𝙴̀.)

𝐓he sun peered through the blinds hanging in front of the window, it's beaming light and heat waking me up. That was one thing I didn't miss about this room. I groaned, turning over to where my back was now facing the window, "When they gon' get some drapes in this mothafucka'?" I grumbled, lifting myself up from the mattress with my right arm and throwing my legs over the edge of the bed with my eyes still closed. Why the hell am I so tired? What time is it?

I rubbed my eyes before opening them slowly, squinting as they adjusted to the brightness in my room. Glancing over at the alarm clock on the nightstand, I could see that it was only 8:43am. Just as I was about to lay back down, I heard my toilet flush. What the hell? Furrowing my eyebrows, I quietly got up from the squeaky mattress and walked to the nightstand to unplug the lamp and carry it with me as I approached the door. I could hear the faucet of the sink running as whoever it was washed their hands. I waited for a while, nervous. Who the fuck is in there? Why didn't I hear them come in the bedroom? I wonder if the family is okay... Once I could hear the doorknob turn, I adjusted my grip on the lamp and raised it above my shoulders as if it was a baseball bat — ready to knock out whoever it was.

The door swung open and just as the lamp started oscillating, I stopped my motions once I saw a terrified K-Ci ducking his head slightly with his arms raised as a form of surrender, "Ay, nigga! What hell you doin'?" I could tell that he was confused, scared, and slightly upset.

I lowered the lamp to my side and stepped back from the door, "Oh shit, my bad." Damn...PTSD is a bitch. One minute I'm fine and the next, I'm buggin' out. I was a lot more paranoid these days. Therapy was supposed to be helping with that, but apparently it wasn't helping enough.  Embarrassed, I decided to just keep my cool and play it off. I rubbed the back of my neck awkwardly, releasing a nervous laugh, "I ain't know you was in there, nigga. Why you ain't say nothin'?"

"I did! Yo' ass was just sleepin' too hard!", he replied defensively. He brushed passed me before stopping to snatch the lamp out of my hand, "What the fuck was you gon' do with this anyway? Make me look into the light?" He shook his head as he went to place the lamp back down on the nightstand. "You ain't got no hospitality skills, you know that?"

I had gotten a whiff of the foul odor coming from the bathroom since he had left the door open, frowning as I cupped my hand around my nose. Quickly closing the door, I turned to look at him with disgust, "Neither do you! Why you travel all the way to Charlotte just to shit at my parents' house?"

"First of all, I don't smell that bad", he said and I gave him a look as I lowered my hand from my nose. "Aight, maybe I do. But it ain't my fault. My auntie tried to cook again and it tore my stomach up", he explained.

I made a face, "Damn. She still tryna cook?" I felt bad for the nigga. When I used to live with them, I tried his auntie's cooking for the first time and had diarrhea for 4 days.

"Hell yeah. I ain't wanna' hurt her feelings because she really be tryin', but next time I'ma tell her to shove that meatloaf up her hairy ass", he said with frustration while lowering himself on the edge of the bed, "And I ain't fly to Charlotte just to shit. I flew out here to visit my family just like yo' stank mouth ass. You need  to brush yo' teeth."

I sucked my teeth before lifting my hand to mouth, doing a breath check, "Nigga, my breath don't even stink. And outta' all the bathrooms in the house, why the hell you gotta' use mine?"