The Girl in the Red Sweater

The Girl in the Red Sweater [2]

---The long awaited second chapter. Sorry to all who waited for it. So sorry it took so long. I've been wanting to update for some time, but I just never got around to writing it. Anyways, I hope you enjoy ^^---

My stomach growls, making me flinch. I wish I hadn’t thrown my pizza, and I am not ready to go downstairs and face my mother, or for that matter, my father. Then it strikes me. I yelled at her again.

“Damnit!” I snap, pounding my fist on the comforter of my bed, which is of little comfort. Another hot tear rolls down my cheek. “Mom,” I whisper and pull my arm over my eyes to stifle the tears, “I’m sorry.”

My mother is used to me throwing fits, but it still bothers me that she has to put up with them constantly. She takes an overworked schedule with not enough pay, an endless debt, a hellhole of a household, the neglect of a drunkard of a husband, AND the abuse of her own child, all with a smile on her face. The least I cando is control my anger and be the sensible, helpful, loving son she deserves and the responsible young adult she raised me to be. Yet I still put her through so much hell. All I can do is say sorry.

Sitting up, I groan and rub my eyes restlessly, preparing myself to go downstairs.

I turn to my night stand and sigh with relief. At least my yogurt is still here. Sluggishly, I grab the container and peel back the plastic cover. As I eat, I begin to think back on my reaction. It was something my (other) therapist told me to do after I had a fit. It's shit really, but it does make me come to terms with a lot of my emotions. It doesn't, however, help me control myself. I could look back on my mistakes all I wanted, but that wouldn’t keep me from making them again.

After about a half hour of hunger, I muster up the courage to sneak downstairs. I pray that my dad has already left for the bar, or at least the couch.

My prayers go unanswered.

I triy, no, strive to be quiet, but he still sniffs me out. I'm half-way between the stairs to my room to the refrigerator when his voice pounds my ears.

“Boo!” his voice, surprisingly sober, rings, “Come here.” A shiver tickles my spine as my voice quivers with an exasperated sigh.

“Hm?” I answer, turning only my head in his direction, hoping he only wished to throw a crude slur or beer bottle at me and let me return to my fridge grazing.

“Don’t hm me, come here!” his voice is loud, but understandable. Surprisingly, he came home sober.

“What?!” I snap, my form now by the side of the couch facing the arm chair he so disgustingly overwhelms.

“Don’t what me you little prick!” he barks, “Now show me a little respect and pay attention.”

“I’ll show you respect when you deserve it,” I spit.

“I deserve more respect than a shivering piss-off of a boy like you ever will.”

“How so?” I question snidely.

“I conceived you, you little shit,” he shouts, his face turning red.

“Oh, wow. So you produce sperm and you automatically deserve respect? Where can I sign up?”

“Shut your smart little mouth before I smack it off,” he orders, an ugly, sausage-like finger now pointed in my direction, “Now listen. If you upset your mother one more time, your bony little ass will be out on that pavement so fast your smart little mouth won’t fast enough to say shit before it hits.”

“You can’t do that,” I state, not defiantly, but matter-of-factly.

“It’s my goddamn house!” he roars.

“Since when,” I confront, “It’s Mom who pays for it.”

“But I run it.”

“Psh, no you don’t. You’re not even here half the time. If anything, it runs better without you.”

“If you don’t zip it, I’ll throw you out right now.”

“Then get off your fat ass and try it!” I’m a resilient little fucker, in my dad’s words of course.

“Why you little-” he stands up and strides towards me before grasping a tight hold around my arm.

“Clark!” my mother’s voice cuts through the boiling atmosphere as well as my father’s grip on my shoulder, “You told me you’d stop this!” I see tears in her eyes.

“Morgan, I…”

“Out!” she shrieks, cutting him off.

“Morgan, please…”

“Out!” she shrieks again, pointing to the door, “And if you ever touch my Boo again, you are going to have to spend your money on a lawyer instead of booze!”

As he sulks out the door, I can’t help but grin, but when I seethe expression on my mother’s face, it disappears.

“Mom,” I whispered, reaching for her hand. It was shaking, “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault Boo,” she answers under her breath, “I should’ve known better than to trust him” She gives me a sad smile before releasing her hand from mine and leaving me alone once again.