Skinny Boy ✔

Chapter 38: a mother's tears

What do you do when you're upset, frustrated, and sure that you're going to get into trouble when dad comes home? You exercise. Well, at least that's what I did. 

When the tears on my cheeks became crusty remnants, and my face lost its puffiness and returned to normal, my whole attitude slowly began changing. Suddenly, I was no longer frowning, but scowling, because how dare my mom butt into my business like that? How dare she invade my privacy like that! How dare she search through my things! Does she not know what privacy is? 

On top of being sad and angry, I was also humiliated, offended, and ashamed. I felt exposed, a wound opened for the world to see, one that didn't want to be seen but was looked at anyway, and once someone lay their eyes on it, I was completely vulnerable. Maybe that's why I ignored her knocks on the door and pleas to sit down and talk. 

Desperate for any sort of console that wouldn't make me face my feelings, I jumped head-first into the only comfort I thought I had left: exercise. 

Fuck these arms, I need to focus on my legs anyway. 

I looked down at the legs I was violently stretching in front of me. 

Yep, I've definitely been neglecting these chicken legs. Disgusting. 

I started off with lunges, switching legs to the beat of my own thoughts. 

Chicken legs. 

Right foot. 

Too big of thighs.

Left foot. 

Not big enough calves.

Right foot. 

Gross toes. 

Left foot. 

Gross feet. 

This was the same process I went through every single workout. If I wasn't going to the rhythm of music, I was playing insults on repeat. 

I was so in tune with what I was doing that I didn't take notice when my dad walked through the front door. I heard him enter the house, but it didn't register in my mind, not until I heard the faint murmurs of my parents downstairs. 

Then, like a boulder falling onto a truck, it hit me out of nowhere. 

They aren't yelling. 

I tried not to think about what would happen when dad got home, but still expected another blowout, another fight. I anticipated raised voices and stubborn ears, not silence. You'd expect it to be a good thing that there isn't yelling, right? Wrong. Hushed voices mean they don't want me to hear what they're saying. Hushed voices mean they aren't angry, but worse--they're concerned. 

Of course, this peaked my interest, and could you blame me for tiptoeing out of my room, and eavesdropping just above the stairway? I mean, they were probably talking about me, so it was only fair that I got to hear what they were saying, right? 

But as I neared the staircase, leaning against the wall so not to be seen, my face fell. 

In between the hushed voices were the sounds of my mother crying. When she spoke, her voice was strained and choked. Dad spoke in a comforting tone, but it wasn't enough to stop the crying. 

I could barely make out their words, but could decipher some key phrases, such as dad saying something about "normal for teenage boys," and mom saying that it wasn't normal. 

But out of all their words, there was one thing mom said that I could understand clear as day. "He just won't stop exercising. I don't know what to do."