Billie Joe Armstrong is my step-father... and I hate it [EDITING]

2. Life Before the Lobotomy [Edited]

I stared at the pale white ceiling of my lavender painted bedroom, both colors lovingly painted by my dad himself just before he was taken from us following a turbulent and short fight with cancer. I never quite understood how people can continue going on as normal when they lose someone in the family. Was that what I was supposed to do? I physically felt ill when I thought about going back to the way I was before my dad passed away. How could I?

Well, my mother seemed to find it possible anyway. I closed my eyes and tried to swallow down the bile that had risen in my throat at the mere thought of that creature prowling around my house, and no - I'm not talking about my mom. I'm talking about her new play thing she brought into the house, like a cat presenting a dead mouse to it's owners.

I rolled onto my stomach and pulled my pillow over my head when his voice broke through the air, as if right on cue. I could hear the bastard walking up the hallway of my house and he was speaking at what seemed to be an unnecessary volume. "Sammie! Have you seen my shirt? It's the black one, I need it!"

"That narrows it down to about seven," I heard my mom jokingly reply, her voice chirpy and sickly sweet. "You have a ton of black shirts! Which one are you looking for?"

"You know, the one I always wear. It's just the plain black one!"

I glanced across my room to the rag I had been using to clean my hands of my several paint colors. It had once been his plain black shirt. I couldn't help but smirk to myself and I pounced to my feet, striding across the room to retrieve it. I swiped it up rather aggressively and pulled my bedroom door open, standing out in the hallway in a pair of pajama shorts, an oversized sweater and my hair scraped into a messy bun like some kind of Queen, holding up my treasure.

"Oh," I said, innocently. "Is this it? I'm sorry, I picked it up thinking it was an old dish rag." I faked a pout and batted my eyelashes. "I guess I just didn't think. Silly me."

That was when none only than Billie Joe turned around to face me, his eyes landing instantly on the shirt in my hand hovering just beside my head. My mom appeared in her bedroom doorway, her face going from something that resembled panic to a sudden thunder storm of fury.

"Grace!" she yelled.

"Well," Billie sighed, "I guess I can't wear that anymore."

I raised an eyebrow at him. "I'm surprised you ever did. Even as a paint rag, it was pretty shit."

My mom bottled toward me, snatching the shirt from my hand. "I can't believe you would vandalize-"

"It's hardly vandalism, mom."

"- someone's stuff like that! That's horrible, Grace!"

"Compared to what he's done to me?" I seethed, snatching back the shirt from her and pointing at him. "Doesn't that cunt have his own place to go?"

"You know," Billie interjected, "It really isn't a big deal, I can just wear another one."

That rubbed me up the wrong way, for some reason. I tutted and turned to look at him, narrowing my eyes at him. "Oh, you would say that. Mr I-Pretend-To-Understand-So-I-Can-Fuck-Your-Mom. Why don't you just ever leave? Why are you always here, free loading in our damn house?"

My mom looked like she wanted to deck me and for a brief moment, I wondered if she was going to. She must have come dangerously close a few times, I refuse to believe otherwise. She grabbed the shirt again but I held on this time. "Why do you think, Grace?" she hissed, her voice low as though she didn't want him to hear.

"I didn't ask you, I asked him."

"It's fine, Sammie, I can really just get another one, they aren't hard to find," he butted in, yet again. That was him all over - butting in.