I never know how my parents are going to behave when I come home. Never. At least not for a long time. And that was affirmed Wednesday when they came home without telling me.
The house was in a, say, disheveled state, so I knew My Fucking Father was going to rip me a new one for it. That came tonight, after I came home from working out and avoiding them as much as possible. I was preparing myself for the possibility that he was going to clean my room, and sure enough, as soon as I saw my old antenna missing from where I put it, I knew he did.
As usual, I heard his goddamn footsteps trundle up the stairs as I was looking around Grandmother's bedroom (into which I was thrown into by both my folks) while I was wondering where the hell did he fucking put my stuff. Oh yes, here it comes, the motherfucking "clean your room and throw all your old stuff away" speech again. Only this time he added all the things he didn't like about the shape the house was in when my parents blindsided me. He peppered his insults with a fair share of lies, also a part of the act. In particular he showed me a towel with a hole in it and said the towel ripped apart after I left it underneath an overwatered plant. It's become more apparent that My Fucking Father and My Fucking Mother are crazy in their own individual ways, but accusing me of shit I didn't do appears to be a trait they both share.
I was given a deadline to recycle all the papers tomorrow. I bluffed and said I work tomorrow, but My Fucking Father's on one of his rampages, so I had to sift through them. This is what storage is for. But ah, there is another surprise, although I guess I should have seen this coming the first time Mother got the mail and saw the bill from the storage facility.
I decided to leave because I couldn't fucking stand being at home with My Fucking Father, but also to put the bags I will send to storage tomorrow morning. My Father, hearing that I started the car outside, sat down on the stoops -- one of the ways to show how I'm really, really hurting him -- and reveals that he knows my secret about the storage facility, and then berates about why I pay money to throw papers into it. It's not just papers. It's Entertainment Weekly, it's programs, it's stuff that I resent My Fucking Father for wanting to throw away. He says I need to see a shrink. I think that's still a secret.
I just stared at him until he complained himself to exhaustion. I then asked to leave, and he shooed me out. Right now, I don't know if he's throwing all my stuff outside, or planning to throw me out of the house, or crying on My Fucking Mother's shoulder, or planning to kill me. I'm just really, really scared of what awaits me when I have to come back to the house again -- and it has to be fairly soon, because I know he'll be pissed if I stay out too late.
I truly hate my parents. My Fucking Mother the past two days, My Fucking Father now. I truly, truly, truly hate them -- for yelling at me now, for all the abuse they've heaped on me all my life, for turning me into the trembling, uncertain, negative son-of-a-bitch I am now.
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