Broken Home // mashton

chapter fifteen

"Your dad honestly makes me so mad," he heard as soon as he stepped into the kitchen. "- it's like he doesn't want to find a fucking job! I don't have the money to keep supporting us like this. Look, we don't even have food in the fridge!"

He winced when she slammed the door shut and he took a deep breath before grabbing a glass to fill with water. "You know... I can ask the school to give me a work permit —"

"- that's not the point, Michael." She immediately snapped at him. "The point is your father is lazy, temperamental, and would rather us fall in debt instead of get a job that 'doesn't pay enough'. Anything is better than nothing!"

He looked down at the glass and then heard a door slam form the hallway. "If you didn't spend so much money gambling, we'd have the money to spend!"

"I should be able to spend my own hard earned money as I wish. If you would just find a fucking job —"

"- don't you think I'm trying?"

He watched them argue back and forth, and he felt his breathing quicken as he saw the vein in his father's forehead peek out and the skin on his mother's face heat into a rose red. She was slapping her hands together, making hand gestures to emphasize her point and he was laughing without amusement, belittling her worry and turning the argument around on her. Back and forth. Back and forth like a game of tennis. She's to blame, but then it's him. He's the reason they're unhappy, but then she's the reason they're struggling.

But then it's his fault.

"Right, Michael? Am I wrong?" His dad asked while looking at him with a fire behind his eyes.

"He knows it's your fault for not being able to keep a steady job. Michael's on my side." His mom retorted before grabbing his arm tightly.

They only got married because he was born, not because they wanted to. And it's not like he asked to be born.

He stared at the glass of water in his hand, heart heavy as he felt trapped there under pressing gazes.

It was a game of tug-o-war.

His mom was physically pulling him to her, demanding he tell his father that he was at fault. Her grip was tight, and it hurt, but he couldn't speak because is dad was always there for him since she worked all the time. He held a mental advantage, but with the more time they spent together the more distress he mentally and emotionally pushed on to him.

"He doesn't even like you. You think you were there on his first day of school? Were you there at his promotion? Were you there to pick him up from his first dance? You were never there!" His dad shouted and Michael felt invisible between them as they talked about him but not too him.

"You can't even support your own son! Who buys his clothes? Who buys his games? Who pays his cell phone bill? Who was going to buy him his first car? Sure as hell isn't and wasn't you." She sneered and Michael gasped as her grip on his elbow tightened even more.

"Mom, —"

"- money can't buy happiness, Karen."

Michael's knees buckled as a hot pain shot through him, painted nails digging into his skin. "Mom, please —"

"- can't it? If we weren't struggling with our finances don't you think we'd all be happier?" She argued, and he took a deep breath.

"No, because it's your fucking personality and priorities that got us here! If it weren't for —"

Michael dropped his glass against the floor, watching as the water spilt around their feet and the shattered fragments of the cup slid across the tiles. It felt like everything between them was cracking, breaking, and now as he felt his mother's nails break through his skin it felt like everything was beyond repair. How did it even get this far? He remembers when they didn't argue daily, and when they'd sit together and watch movies on the couch as a family or stand in the kitchen trying to make a new dinner recipe because someone got tired of eating the same thing over and over. Now the kitchen was a war zone, the living room was vacant, and everywhere else was filled with thick waves of tension.

Their voices faltered, silence wracking through the kitchen as he took a deep breath. "Mom," he repeated as he looked at his arm. "- you're-you're hurting me."

She immediately let go, and he cradled his arm to his side as she gasped. "I'm so sorry, Michael. I didn't mean to hurt you, my baby. Your dad just makes me so mad and-and I forgot I was holding you." She rambled and even then, even if it was her hand and her strength it was somehow still his father's fault.

"Does it matter?" He asked as he looked between them. "Does it matter who's fault it is?"

"Of course it matters." His dad replied as if he asked the stupidest question in the world. "Because I know we'd be just fine if your mom didn't blow money away like it grows on trees."

"I know we'd be perfect if your dad could just keep a job for more than half a year." She spit and Michael scoffed.

"If you hate each other so much, why don't you just do us all a favor and divorce?" He asked before walking away, the glass crunching beneath the soles of his shoes as he headed towards the front door. "I'm going to Luke's."

He heard another door slam shut and he turned his head to find Ashton standing on his own porch as well. He watched him kick the bottom of the front door, and he felt even more guilt bubble in his stomach as he seen him lift his sweater to find a large purple cloud along his ribcage.

"We should run away." Michael called and Ashton looked at him as he dropped the black fabric.

"Don't give me ideas." He said, and Michael could barely hear him.

He stepped off his porch and then took off walking, and he felt Ashton follow him closely. "Your dad is watching from the dining room window." He reminded him.

"My dad can eat a dick and die." Ashton answered and Michael shook his head. "Harry ratted me out."

"My parents don't know how to let things go and act like adults." Michael added as he felt Ashton reach for his arm. "My mom accidentally hurt me."

Ashton sighed. "It always starts off as an accident, doesn't it?"

Michael stopped, his gaze shifting to Ashton as he kept walking. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Ashton turned around to look at him, but he kept walking ahead. "I don't know. I'm not a poet or wordsmith. I'm just talking, just existing. Make it out to whatever you want."

"You look like you got beat, maybe you should have put makeup on." Michael told him, and Ashton ruffled his own hair before shrugging.

"You stop caring, Michael." He admitted as he stopped. "There comes a time when you stop being scared and you start to accept that this is the shit you have to put up with. In case you haven't realized, I just don't care anymore. I'm going to lie about it anyways, fuck it, am I right?"

"I think you need a therapist." Michael told him as he tried filling the space between them with little steps forward. "You'd benefit greatly."

"I think you need to stop telling me what I already know and realize I just don't give a shit." He laughed and Michael looked down at the concrete. "Stress about what you can change, not what you can't. I can't make my dad magically stop without hurting my family, so I stopped. You can't stop your parents from arguing, so stop caring."

"It isn't that easy."

"You'll get tired of it sooner or later," Ashton assured him. "- and when you do, you'll know what I mean."

He nodded and Ashton held a hand out for him. "Let's go on a date."

Michael smiled, and he took his hand before the two began walking away from their homes. "Your dad just lets you leave the house?" He asked and Ashton shrugged.

"You think he wants to see his abomination of a son all the time?" He asked and Michael's eyes followed his hand as it pushed his hair back. "You?"

"I'm with Luke."

"Good enough." He answered and Michael leaned his head against Ashton's shoulder as they continued walking.