We're eating pasta tonight. I put to boil some water and poured some fettuccine in it. A few drops of hot water hit my hand. I jump but the burning feels good. It wakes me up. Dad is doing a white sauce with cheese and mushrooms. Pasta. Why pasta?
Every Friday night we used to order pizza and sit all around the table. Mom would always dig first and take the biggest slice of the box. She was always laughing about how amazed she was about pizza. In one bite, you could taste everything. Now, she's dead. In a stupid car accident.
Anyways... Jenny would eat two slices of veggie pizza because she thought it was healthier for her. Now she's gone. She's at university. She's studying in medicine. I miss them. I feel like everybody's gone because of me.
So I'm stuck with pasta on Fridays since I'm 11-years-old.
-So, how's the pasta?
-Still tastes the same way it did 4 years ago.
-Jeez, Lauren, I'm just trying to...
-...Make conversation, I know. Well try again later because I'm mad and you're sending me to a mental hospital.
-Wow, it's just a psycologist and it's his clinic, not a hospital.
-Whatever.
-You know, it's exhausting when you do that.
I just dump the rest of my plate in the garbage. I'm still hungry but my anger takes all the space in my body, not letting any for compassion nor pasta.
The weight hits my chest again. It's like a monster made of anger and sorrow that bites my lungs and makes me tear up inside. I then run to my bedroom, jump on my bed and try to swallow the tears that come straight out of nowhere.
Maybe he's right, maybe I do need help
