Let's Get Lost

III. Johnny

III. Johnny

     NOTHING HAD EVER made as much sense to me as visiting our old home.  It was ratty now, falling apart after the fire.  I don't think Ryan remembered it; I know my mother chose to forget, but regardless of how little they knew, I remembered every little detail -- no matter how insignificant it may seem to an outsider. 

Ryan was only two when it happened.  Dad had gotten stuck inside, but he survived.  Mom was scarred down her back, but they weren't too bad.  She had been beautiful to me when I was younger, and not just physically.  She was great when Dad was around . . . but without him?  Now?  Well, now I'm no one to her.  We hardly ever get along; we constantly fight.  There's always something I'm doing that's wrong and it's not fair.  Aside from that, she always agrees with Ryan.  Whenever I try not to talk about Dad, he's constantly asking questions. 

I don't see why it matters to him, anyway. 

Swallowing hard, I turned around, trying to remember my childhood here.  I could and when I closed my eyes, I could even smell Dad grilling out.  I could feel how happy I had been, how free everything had seemed . . . how loved I'd been. 

My phone buzzed in my pocket and I picked up, groaning to myself as my mother's voice rang clear from the other end. 

"Johnny, it's time for you to come home.  We're having dinner and it'd be nice for the family to be here right now," she snapped at me. 

I instantly snapped back, "Oh, it'd be nice for the whole family to be there, huh?  What about how I would feel if Dad was still around?  You know, it's your fault he's dead.  It's all your fucking fault." 

"How in the Hell is it my fault?"

I could tell she was trying to keep it on the down low, since Ryan didn't know everything he was supposed to know by now.  She wanted me to tell him everything she was too scared to, because she didn't want him to hate her.  She was willing to let him hate me, though . . . and as much as I didn't care, it still wasn't fair. 

"If you hadn't been such a fucking whore and cheated on him, he would still be here!  He was going to see you!"  I screamed, finally letting go of some of the anger I'd bottled in over the years.  I had made the connect when Ryan was young and I saw the birthmark on the left side of his back.  It matched someone else we'd known -- not Dad.  When I tried to talk to Dad about it, he pushed it off and said my mother would never cheat on him . . . but he hadn't known she wanted to get a divorce, either.

"It was so convenient for you, wasn't it?  Wasn't it?!"  I was still screaming, and crying along with it now, because Ryan had no idea he wasn't my biological brother -- but merely my half brother.  I wanted so badly to tell him, but I couldn't.  I just couldn't.  As much as I didn't care about my brother hurting, I cared if I hurt him. 

"Johnathon, get your ass home now and apologize for calling your mother a whore!"

"He called you a whore?"  Ryan growled out from the other end of the phone, "I can't kick his ass but I damn will try!" 

"Fucking do it!  Go ahead!  I invite you to!" 

"Both of you, stop it!"  She yelled out before taking a breathe and returning to the conversation we were sharing on the phone, "Johnny, get your ass home.  I mean it." 

"What are you going to do if I don't?"

"I'll report you, that's what I'll do!" 

"I'm eighteen fucking years old!  Go ahead, do it!"  I was still yelling, "They won't do shit to me!  So feel fucking free!" 

"Stop yelling at me, Johnathon!" 

"My name isn't Johnathon!" 

"Fine," she yelled, again, "Fine.  Do whatever you please, since you're so mature and can take care of yourself.  Just remember -- don't come crawling back to me when you're stranded somewhere, alone and scared and hungry and cold!" 

She hung up on me, then. 

Swallowing hard, again, I slowly shoved the phone in my pocket and closed my eyes.  I had just been kicked out of my house.  My job was falling apart.  My brother hated me.  My mother hated me -- and he thought we were completely related.  My father was dead.  My brother thought our father was the same man, even though he wasn't.  He even thinks he's still alive -- but he's not.  My mother told him that the accident had just screwed up his face, since his real dad was scarred up pretty bad.  What I didn't understand was how Ryan didn't make the connections, yet.  He hadn't seen his real father in ages, and he hasn't seen my dad in quite awhile, either.  I know it's hard to line all that up when you believe one thing when the truth is the other . . . but still.

Their hair was the same; Ryan's father and him both had blonde hair.  My father had dark brown hair, like I did.  Ryan's father and him both had light blue eyes.  My father's eyes were a dark ocean blue, like mine.  Ryan's father was tall and built a little more like Ryan was.  My father was tall and lean, like I was.  It even went down to the smallest details: birthmarks, health issues that Ryan didn't know about -- even the way they ate or talked or walked.  Ryan was more reserved than my father and me -- we were both laid back and relaxed most of the time. 

I just wanted him to make the connection and to know my dad was my dad and his dad was someone else.  I didn't want to share my father any more than I already had to; I wanted him for myself.  The memory of him, at least, because my father -- as much of a dad as he was to Ryan -- wasn't Ryan's father. 

He never would be . . . and I would never see him, again, all because of my whore of a mother.