Showmanship

18 - Disaster Zones and The Bitch We Call Light Pollution

Disaster Zones

I sat in an attorneys office with my other two twin sisters that had just turned 18, and were the only other people involved with my father's will. Mr. Waltz didn't usually travel to places for readings, but for our specific family he would make an exception. Mostly because he knew we were all a complete mess.

    Mostly me. I was the mess.

   I couldn't sleep last night. Nights like that I usually cried myself to bed or puked myself to bed in a sense, but I tried to cry and tried to puke and my body still would not let out any of that energy.

    When I first found out I just stared at whatever stood in front of me like it was cardboard cut out. At first it had been Dorothy, who honest to god seemed like she was having a rough day herself. Then after Dorothy walked me up to my apartment, I stared at Alex until he threatened to call my old therapist.

    Finally I laid on my bed, staring up at the ceiling. My eyes making shapes in the dark, mostly because my anxiety has gotten to the part where it was boring and painstaking.

     Strangely I had waited for this moment my whole life - when my father would kick the bucket and all the problems he brought would die too, but something inside me still felt like I needed to be angry. I had been angry before he was dead and now I was angry after, so when did I get to be unpissed?

I sat like an overcharged battery or a shaken up soda can that would burst. I could feel myself loosing it, and it if one more thing poked me I would pop.

Mr. Waltz twisted his hands together like a squirrel chewing on a nut. "How are you kids feelings?"

No one said anything because Marge didn't have an answer, Bridget didn't want to answer, and I was about to burst.

Marge shrugged and answered, always forced to be the cute little face of the family. "A little upset, but I knew it would happen eventually."

Bridget leaned back on the chair. "Yeah."

"I understand. I know you girls didn't have the best relationship with your father, but it's still okay if it hurts," Mr. Waltz said sympathetically.

Marge nodded, blindly agreeing. The way you do at funerals or at other family functions. For example, Aunt Edna says "Ya know I just think Lisa really could have gotten out of the trouble without the wellfair," or "Maybe the Baptist church does have a point." And you just nod because at this point you've eaten all the snacks on the cheese platter and you're tired.

Mr. Waltz then corked his head over to me and stared his pitiful gaze at me. My legs were crossed and so were my arms, literally wrapping up in an imaginary security blanket so I wouldn't explode.

"How are you feeling about all of this James? Are you doing fine?"

I stared blankly at Mr. Waltz for awhile because he had turned into the next cardboard cutout, and my head started to spin.

I grabbed the nearest trash can and puked, and everything just became flashing light because it's very hard to puke when your body isn't actually sick. It doesn't want to puke, so the action of puking is a lot more violent.

Marge just patted me on the back and Bridget reached for some tissues.

I tossed the trash can beside me, not a hundred percent sure I wouldn't need it again, but at least the people in the room were used to my freak outs and diff try to force feed me baby aspirin.

I reached for the metallic pen on Mr. Waltz desk and started to click it.

"Just-," I sighed, trying to keep what little composure I still had in the tank. "What do I need to sign?"