Pulled Under | Slow Updates

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moxie (n.) : courage; nerve; determination

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Lyla studies the face in the picture as she anxiously gnaws on her thumb nail. 

"I think this is the one," she speaks up finally. She'd been sitting here for almost an hour trying to find a hook up.

She leans over to show me a picture of a simple boy with blonde hair, blue eyes, and stubble.

"Lyla, he's nothing special," I deadpan.

"Maybe to you. But for me, he looks like fun," she retorts. She turns back to her phone and taps the icon that notifies the guy she took interest in him. She sends a short message informing him of her sole intent. Nothing special, just a hook up.

With that, she shuts her phone off and turns to me with a small smile gracing her lips.

"Happy Birthday," she says timidly. I turn and almost snarl. I hate today. Almost every other year, it was tolerable, but today was absolute hell.

"Nothing special. I'm just a year older than I was last year," I mutter. Lyla shakes her head at me, ridiculing me for my "ridiculousness."

"You know, the world wouldn't end if you tried to be happy," she mutters underneath her breath as she pulls out of the CVS parking lot.

I take in a deep breath and sigh. My life is just one of bore. Nothing exciting ever happens. I'm stuck in a repeating cycle of every day. The car engine rumbles violently. Lyla's old car won't last too much longer, but she insists that she keeps it, that it won't die on her. 

She has a bit of trouble understanding reality if you couldn't tell. 

I let my slow thoughts become even slower as I take a drag from my cigarette. My eyes water a bit from the smoke, but by now I've gotten used to it and it doesn't bother me as much.

Lyla hits my arm and says, "Hey, let me get a hit."

I pass her the dwindling thing and she takes it into her mouth and takes an even longer drag than I did. She pulls it away from her lips and lets the smoke stir before slowly breathing out, letting the smoke go wherever.

The stagnant car rumbles, begging to be floored. 

I take in a deep sigh, tired of just sitting in this wreck of a car.

"Let's go," I mumble to Lyla.

She didn't budge, giving me the impression she didn't hear me.

"I said le-," she cuts me off before I can finish.

"I heard you the first time. . . barely," she adds.

I roll my eyes as Lyla puts the car into reverse.

"Where to," Lyla asks.

I look at her confused.

"You said, 'Let's go." she looks at me expectantly.

I nod my head and point in the direction I want to go and she quickly catches on. Soon we are sitting in the car, staring out at the sapphire water.

I close my eyes and take in a deep breath. I really didn't want to go back home. The hell that had been created there wasn't even what I deserved. I mean, I may be a failure of a daughter, but that place was havoc and chaos. 

My eyes pop open to the sound of Lyla unwrapping some chocolate. I look at her with what I hope to be puppy eyes, but she looks at me with a scrunched up face. Nonetheless, she passes me a pathetic looking piece of chocolate.

A buzzing sound startles us both and Lyla checks my phone for me.

"It's your mom," she shudders. 

I grimace at the thought of her. My mom was. . . unstable, you could say.

"Well, birthday girl, looks like the family time is wanted," Lyla looks at me with sympathy, pity.

I stare back at her with contempt. She shakes her head at me and starts to pull out of the parking lot.

The sight of the stupid house sent shudders down my spine and goose bumps littered my arms and legs. I can see a slight movement by the windows overlooking the front lawn.

My mom.

I feel Lyla staring at me, watching me. She sighs and reaches over me to open the passenger door. I turn and glare daggers into her. She just shrugs, not caring about my murderous stare.

I unbuckle and slip out of the car, cautious, as though something might jump out at me and knock me to my feet.

The front door opens and my mom stares me down, probably not intending to freak me out, but doing so nonetheless.

The walk to the house was torturous. My impending doom staring at me.

"Hi there," my mom coos like nothing is abnormal about our life.

I nod in acknowledgment. She scowls, an ugly look on her, and lets me push past her. A simple sign of teenage defiance.

My mom turns off the music emitted from the TV. I slouch into the couch, receiving a deadly glare from my mother. I groan and straighten my posture. I wasn't up for the bickering today.

My dad walks in, a stupid smile plastered onto his face. A fake smile, I detect. 

"Ophelia," he croaks, pretending our life is normal. 

Sometimes it makes me feel like I'm insane. My parents pretend everything is fine, but I know it isn't. We all do. But they ignore it and pretend that everything is normal. We didn't even know normal.

The entering of my dad makes my mom shift her face into a pleased grin. I look past her face and see the turmoil churning in her eyes. The slow burn of hatred and contempt.

"Father," I turn to him, trying to keep the incoming grimace internal.

Instead, I smile. Once seeing this, He smiles and turns to retrieve something from the kitchen. 

Taking her chance, my mom takes a subtle jab at me.

"Your hair looks nice," say murmurs, gently lifting a piece to readjust it. 

Yeah right, I scoff in my head.

I wince as my mom painfully tugs on a knot in my hair. My head yanks back from the pull, but that doesn't stop her. She just pulls harder, trying desperately to untangle the birds nest. 

It was happening again.