Jon

Jon
. . .

When girls complain about their lives at home I feel like laughing in their faces. Not exactly the kindest thing to do but I can't help but let the thought cross my mind. What's even worse is when guys go on about how their parents won't buy them the expensive designer stuff they want just because they want to get their swag on as they say. If only they knew how petty they were being. If only they knew how stupid they sounded, too.

By lunch I had already heard whispered nearby that someone saw the cuts on my wrists. They aren't too new. In fact they just scabbed over and are in the process of completely healing. Once they close up I'll cut again. My father just bought a new pack of beer. I'm sure that I can steal away an empty can and break it to get a new blade in my grasp. I don't want scars but at the same time I don't want to stop cutting. So, I ignored it and went on with my day.

I'm not like others. I want people to see the scrapes and bruises that have been created on my skin. I feel as if I'm begging for my parents to see what they've done to me. Mother is watching me from Heaven and I hold hopes that one day she'll whack Dad on the head real good to get him to pay attention. She's not really with me but I pretend she is anyway. She's closer to me than my dear ol' sister ever was and dear ol' dad gave up on me long ago.

Once the bell for the next class rings, I'm called back to which I'm surprised by. I fell asleep at the beginning of the lesson and the rest I kind of BS'ed because I obviously wasn't paying attention. Algebra two. Why do you need a two after an one? Am I really going to use the Pythagorean theorem when I'm done with high school? Maybe some kids will. Like that kid Darren Black for instance. He's got a future.

"You forgot to sign the tardy clipboard." My teacher reminded me, smacking her bright red lips together as if she was really disappointed with me.

Wanting to get out, I signed my name on the empty line. Jon Hill.

*

Just as suspected, Dad breezed through those beers like it was no issue whatsoever. Sure, he got drunk in the end but he's gotten use to the hangover in the morning to a point where he doesn't care anymore. There were three missed calls on the answering machine for him from his boss. Bet he won't be calling the poor guy back. I've learned not to comment on something like that.

As if I was caught in a gravitational pull, I retreated to my room. I threw my backpack on the floor, plopping onto my bed all while burying my face into the pillow. I had tried once to suffocate myself to death but natural instincts took over and I pulled away. The same as when my father pushed me into the bathtub. I laid there after he left with the intention on doing away with myself so that I wouldn't—or couldn't, really—be bothered with later and just as the last bit of air left my lungs, I emerged to the surface.

"You idiot," I heard being growled with heavy footsteps carrying throughout the house. "Where the hell are you? You hidin' in your room again? Grow the hell up."

Just like that, he was standing in my doorway with bloodshot eyes, narrowed into dangerous slits. "You damn idiot. I told ya, when I'm takin' a nap, ya answer the phone for me." (But I was at school.) "Are you listening to me?" (No, I've learned to tune you out when you're drunk.) "I have to call my boss and apologize for my son's incompetence to answer a phone. When I get back you're in trouble." (Guess I'll never learn. Will I, Jon Hill?)