Peroxide (Peterick)

sin

"Patrick, you have a visitor." Elisa's pigmentation sheens with elation, masking the apparent visitor behind the door to amass my own fervor.

Only moments earlier I had been enjoying a compelling novel about life in the seventeen hundreds on a mountain not much different from the one on which the Caribou cottage lies, with the plot development so gripping that its verisimilitude could be interchangeable with my real life, and it offers a more colorful approach to the dull actuality of this hospital room that I don't want to release for a visitor that I see every day.

Because Dallon never got his chance to frequent me, he's probably making his move right now without the memory that I behold his sapphire eyes very often, and that I hate it all the same. Being a regular at someone's party of existence doesn't mean that you're welcomed, but Dallon is egotistic and stubborn, so nothing is ever straight in his mind, chiefly with me.

Dallon, however, isn't the one that slides through the door, and I suppose I now have to give him credit for knowing his boundaries, even barely, though part of that donation resides in the fact that the person standing in my room is even worse of a human being than he is.

So much for not getting stressed out by visitors.

"Patrick!" the woman exclaims, and if this were any other person, they would be fraught with motherly love, but she does not love me enough to be my mother, and I do not love her enough to be her son.

"I'll leave you two alone." Elisa winks, shutting the door and neglecting the signal of begging in my body language.

Immediately after she leaves, my intentions are wholly political once discarding my apprehension with the idea that no one will help me anyway. "Why are you here?"

"I'm your mother," the woman reiterates, overexaggerated fibers of anger plowing through her words, if only quietly in the cognizance that anxiety will produce another seizure, and the payment is already growing too large (it's not like she cares about my safety).

"Only because disowning me would get you in trouble."

"Why would I travel all the way from New Jersey if I weren't your mother?"

I pick at my nails phlegmatically, enraging anyone who observes my caustic actions. "So you could pay the medical bills in person."

"You know, Dr. Saporta is helping me with bills," my so-called mother digresses, tone bouncier when it shouldn't be, when it should be far from the clouds and far from me.

I rebound from my nails, daunted. "Why the hell would he do that?"

The woman encloses herself in sheepishness, reminiscent of a school girl with a crush on some sexist kid in her history class. "Because we're dating now."

Part of me wants to laugh, but that would be inappropriate, although who really gives a shit anymore? My mother was the one who told me to be socially acceptable, and while I may have acquired some friends because of it, Pete Wentz is the only one that I love, and I'll always have social anxiety to screw me over no matter how many friends I keep.

"You're, like, fifty, and the last time I checked, you were still lamenting over Dad."

Tears corroborate the woman's emotions, conquering her elocution as well, but I'm not even sorry after everything she's done. "I've gone through the five stages of grief, and it's time to acknowledge the truth that he's not coming back, that I can move on with my life and not waste my time with him, rather waste my time with Gabe, and you just have to understand that."

First of all, this lady referred to my fucking psychologist, who is always about being professional with the use of his formal title, as Gabe, which is a nickname for Gabriel and goes against everything her new boyfriend believes in, so that leads me to question why the hell they thought they were compatible in the first place.