King of My Heart.

mama's boy.

Joshua
I open my eyes once I catch onto my rapid breath. I sit on the concrete, my back against the same brick wall. My backpack is missing, and my mind is sore. I mean, Lucas Conway, I thought he couldn't be more ideal. Turns out I couldn't be more wrong. As if his dazzling eyes and long blonde locks that almost made him resemble Chad Micheal Murray wasn't enough. He's a prince. An upcoming king of a parallel city. As I hold my head back, one at a time, rain drops patter onto my cheeks. I get up on my feet and pull my hood over my face, and begin walking. I don't have a particular destination, but then again, it wasn't like I needed one. I learned my way around the streets before I got the hang of my bicycle handle bars. The rain soon fell heavier, and the sky soon faded to dark. I can feel the people around me closing in as I wnader up and down the city of Boston. In spite of the rain and the black fabric that dangled over my face, I can see pretty clearly. I stand outside a small diner with only a pocket of ten bucks total and an old Polaroid. It's probably one of the only ones to exist. I don't have many photos from my childhood. I normally kept this one folded up in the back of my wallet. But I torched my wallet last fourth of July, so I just kind of carry it in all my jeans. Don't ask why I insist on keeping it at all. Because I won't have an answer for you. I sit at a spinning stool, my arms leaning onto the marble counter. I run my hand on the laminated menu on my left, watching the same three waitresses pace back and forth and almost into one another. I hand eight of my dollars to one of the women, and she smiles. I sit back and swing my feet to the song played on the beat-up juke box. As I scan the room, I notice the theme. The oldie theme. The 40s, maybe the 30s? She's quick. Less than fifteen minutes, she comes back out. She sets my plate in front of me, smiling so hard her teeth seem to ache. "Your second one'll be right here waiting for you once you finish that one." She set another plate down. I grab the first burger and stuff my face with it like I hadn't eaten in days. The burger barely fits in my mouth. It's so big. I don't have any fries to balance it out or anything to wash it down with, so I just have a mouthful of bun and patty with a smear of ketchup all over my bottom lip. I take a quick intake of breath, ready for my second burger. I look up and see her entire face light up. "Miles, is that you!?" The woman yells at a family walking into the diner. My brow furrows. A little boy throws himself at the waitress and exclaims. "Caroline!" She holds him on her hip, poking at his cheeks and laughing carelessly. I slowly place my burger down, slapping my hand onto my left cheek. "Tiff, I'm kind of packed. I can't tonight." Caroline looks almost as disappointed as Tiff. "Please. He can just stay here. He'll be good, I promise." Tiff begs. "Hector will kill me. I'm sorry, as much as I'd love that. I just can't." She puts the boy down. "I'm free." I impulsively say. I instantly regret it all in the same moment as I'm met with the awkward silence. "Uh. No, that'll be okay. Thank you, though." Tiff politely refuses. I feel an ounce of relief. "It's worth a thought." The man chimes in. "Ronald." She fully turns her body to him, alarmed by his seriousness. "We're already late." He tries to persuade her. My stomach rumbles, praying she says no. She remains reluctant. I get it. She doesn't know me. I understand. I just need a distraction. "Fine." She sighs. Sitting in the back of their car, I try my hardest not to stare. It's hard. I'm in their house and playing with their kid - it feels wrong. I'm a stranger, after all. For most of the night, I sat on the couch in the same spot, trying to keep up a conversation with someone who was clearly more interested in plastic cars and moving train tracks. "How old are you?" I ask, curious how long ago Tiff became the mother type. She still looks young. Too young. Miles says he's three, but he looks much older and speaks much better than I did at his age. "How old are you?" He repeats the question to me. I watch as he crashes the trains together, hestiant to answer. "I turn eighteen in two days." I say. "You don't sound very excited." Miles finally looked at me, genuinely concerned. I almost forgot what it was like being a child, excited for things like birthdays and Christmas. I almost forgot that spending every birthday, wishing your mother would stop drinking and get out of bed remembering it was your birthday for once, wasn't normal. "I am." I politely lie, even forcing a little smile for him. He glares at me. I'm empty-handed. I have nothing important to say. "You know, Miles, that's a cool name!" I nod. He laughs. "My middle name is Miles." I clear my throat. "Cool!" He flips his car into the air. "Yeah.. cool." I sigh. "Look, buddy. It's getting late." Miles stood as soon as the words made their way out of my mouth. I flinched. Expecting a nasty tantrum, I threw my hands up for cover. "All done." He raises his hands, shaking them in a motion. I look up and see all his trains piled up in a shiny blue toy chest. "Do you need me to or -" I slightly push myself out of my slouch. Miles shakes his head and runs toward the bathroom. I get up and waddle down the hall. He has a set of pajamas on the counter and an electric Batman toothbrush. "I see you got it. You don't need me." I awkwardly chuckle. I drag my feet back into the living room, and for the first time, I get a really good look at the room since I first walked in. The tv is huge. The lights are bright. It's cold but not freezing. There's color but nothing too vibrant or bold. I switched the lights off and turned the tv on. Return of the Jedi. I let the movie play as Miles finally went to his room. The door to his room is wide open, and a pink glow is casting a starry shadow on the wall in the hall. I crum myself into the corner of the sofa and hold on to myself for warmth. "Lord Vader, what an unexpected pleasure. We are honored by your presence." I can feel a chill running past me as the scene plays. I lay my head on the arm on the sofa one moment, the next I feel a cold touch on my forehead. I jump. "Tiffany!" I exclaim. She smiles. I reach for my hoodie and force it on. "It's late." She steps in my way. "I don't know what I'd do if I let you out there alone and something happened." She insists I stay. "You don't understand. I can't." I give her a look. A look she should know. "None sense. What kind of mother would I be if I let someone's kid out into a world I wouldn't let my own child be left in." I appreciate her kindness, but nothing about what she's saying is making me feel at ease. "I mean it. Stay. Just until the morning." I sigh. "Sure. It's not a problem." I clutch the side of my pants. It is a problem. A big problem. I slowly sat back down as Ronald followed her down the hall and into Miles's bedroom. I hold my head back, trying to ease back in a daze, trying to ignore Miles's excitement at his parents' return. My head the back of the sofa, knocking me dead asleep. I don't remember the last time I slept so well. I slowly rise from the sofa and slip my shoes on. "Where you going?" I hear a cheery voice. I turn and see Tiffany. She has a big grin on her face. "At least eat." I can't look at her like that and say no. I stand in place, nodding sternly. She laughs. "You could give me a hand if you like." I waddle into the kitchen hestiantly. I grab the bowls from the cabinets and flour from the counter. She has an arrangement of labeled containers lined up along the wall. "Sugar. Salt. Flour." It was the kind of things you only saw in houses of those who sent money just for the hell of it. I slowly drifted to the side, waiting until I was needed again, tapping my foot slowly onto the tile floor. As I watch her pour the batter into the hot pan, I notice a print on her wrist. A tattoo possibly. I begin to contemplate whether or not to pry - maybe just plain out ask. "Why?" I say before I rehearse exactly what I want her to hear. She looks at me with perplexed pupils. "This house. Uh- how long have you lived in it." I say, thinking of the best I could come up with. "This was my parents' house. It was gifted to me when I got out of rehab." R-E-H-A-B I mouthed, making sure that's what I heard. "Oh." I organically utter. "I guess you could say I drank a little bit in my teens - and twenties. It cost me everything. So I did what I knew I had to." She swiftly confides in me like I'm her Facebook wall. "Well, if it helps. I think you're doing great." I look back at the pan before she can catch the look on my face. "Miles is lucky to have you." I cut up. As I reach into the fridge for the eggs, she smiles. "I'm sure your mom feels the same. Willingly offering to babysit some kid you don't even know? That's not something just anyone would do. She's really lucky. Or your dad. Whoever raised you to be so kind. I grab the carton and shut the fridge. Before I can hand them to her, I catch a glimpse of the fridge. My photo is hanging from her fridge with a pineapple magnet. "Oh, I see that you found my photo collage." I don't peel my eyes away. "That's my sister and her son." She laughs. I can't fully explain the feeling to. How I suddenly feel no longer whole. It's something I can't make out. Like an outerbody experience. Like my mind is here, but my body is lost. "Hey?!" I look up, and she's trying to get my attention. All the eggs are splattered on the floor as the empty carton remains in my tight clutch. My heart races, trying to recall when I dropped the eggs. I look at her, wanting to scream, "Remember me damn it!" But it's no use, I can't say a word. I set the carton onto the counter and made my way past her. Leaving the house, I stood in front of their pristine mailbox. "Sinclair ♡" it read. I wish swinging off a bottle of vodka could tarnish my memory the way it had with hers. I stood here a moment longer, feeling the familiar sting of her once again, not running after me. I snatch a big log from the curb and smash it over the mailbox. Miles wasn't lucky. To be her son was to be cursed.