“You’re a piece of shit.” The milk hits me square in the face, but I’ve jerked left in time for the cup to sail past my head. I’m lucky she’s a righty and throws at the same arc every time.
I can see V trying to melt into his chair. His arms flaccid, his gaze is so low I can’t see past his eyelashes. He’s old enough to know better than to move or speak. Steve, though…it’s strange. He didn’t react at all. I think he’s used to it. He went on eating dinner obliviously like this was any old Tuesday night.
I’m not sure when she started throwing things at me. Maybe she got tired of hurting her hand? Or maybe she didn’t want to get up? It’s kind of nice though. You know exactly how much trouble you’re in based on how much she was willing to move. Words? Just angry. Projectiles? Furious. And movement? Livid. If she started in pursuit, it was best to let her catch you. The more effort she had to exert correlated to how hard you’d be hit.
It became sport. Just how close to the line could I get. I liked the power. I got pretty decent at making her just mad enough to yell, but not angry enough that she’d hurt me. Being numb felt so claustrophobic and I was bored by it.
Her yelling made me angry. I liked the fire I felt in my chest. The lightheadedness from deluge of adrenaline. I worked on building up a tolerance to the hitting. To endure it in silence, without breaking so I’d win. I never did though. I was too weak. My heart was too fragile. I absolutely hated that about myself. I wanted so badly to revel in her hurt expression rather than crumble in the guilt. I needed the bits of love they tossed at me just as I needed water. I waited for those bits.
It was a struggle all the time. The bits of love had side effects though. I could not have the love without feeling all of the other feels. I could not slide the love into my heart unnoticed. The dam broke every time I added to it.
“Clean this up,” she said in disgust and walked out of the room, taking her Dr. Pepper and leaving the three of us. Milk ran down the patio door. I wonder if the lady across the street can see this. Did she hear the thunk of the glass against the window? How hard do you have to hit a patio door before it breaks? Fuck. She’d beat me if that happened.
V, who hadn’t moved, lifted his eyes to meet mine. His pathetic look only said, “Why do you do this to yourself?” It was a look that I both wanted to be comforted by and punch off of his face. I glowered at him and hissed, “What are you looking at?” He looked back down at his plate and a zap of guilt hit my chest.
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