berry l'reaux {c a p i t o l} done

I know they loved me. It was never a question really, my parents loved me. They must have, right? I felt it with every kiss and every hug, with every cutout heart I threw in the garbage because the others made fun of me. A genuine, good, parent seems rare these days. When I make my way past the children's school I see them making their own ways home, tiny feet tracing a path they must have long since known. There was no parent waiting to welcome their child after a long day's school with open arms and warm kisses. Everyone seems obsessed with growing up, with leaving childhood as quickly as humanly possible. Except for those who never even got one, except for me. It's almost a bitter feeling I get, watching them make their way home all alone, watching them talk animatedly with their friends and worry about nothing other than the cutest girl in class. No bills, no job, no image, no booze. Innocence in its purest form. 

And I want that. 

And I'll never have that.

My parents were into alternative learning, I think. Or maybe they just knew I wasn't like the others. I want to be, hell I do all I can just to prove I'm no different than anyone else. There's some novelty to being normal when you're anything but. I'm scared now, 'cause no matter how smashed I get I still hate myself. It was easier back when I just started, easier to forget everything and be nothing. Easier to blend into a crowd and to forget how mortified I am of anyone looking at me. I can convince myself they aren't cringing at the sight of me or the sound of my voice 'Cause alcohol tastes nice and it makes me normal. 

I'm not smart, the opposite really, I just don't think the same as others. They've mistaken that for some kind of genius when it's only proof of how different I am. Words flow through my brain like waves on an ocean, strong and constant. There's not one thing I've forgotten, but the tide is excellent at hiding information when I need it most. (Mother said I'd loose my own head, had it not been stapled to my shoulders. I say I've already lost it.) Pictures are my absolute favorite. A collection of cameras sits on my windowsill now and I could tell you their exact make and model and in which order they are placed. My walls are lined with cliche photos of sunsets and city buildings in the late hours of night. They're all mediocre, taken by me in my years travelling the Capitol. Of all the things I excel at, art is not one of them. And so I love the pictures. 

I don't blame them for disappearing. It's been so long now I can hardly remember their faces. My therapist tells me it's because I don't want to. Something about trauma and abandonment. It was the day of my graduation and I stuck out like a sore thumb, a seventeen year old amongst a sea of adults. They weren't there when they promised to be. They'd never broken a promise 'til that day. Diploma in hand, I'd run all three miles back to my house. Quite a  feat as I had, and still have, the physical capability of a three year old. My face was stained an ugly red and that only worsened as I called my parents names. Then I screamed them. And then I cried. They were gone and they never came back. Their bank accounts were gutted, the contents lay in cash upon the counter and they were gone. I looked through all the rooms, and then the neighborhood and then the city. And they were still gone. 

Every so often, I'll hear a rustling in a room I've not been to in a while. It's a childish thing to do, but I look, hoping to see my parents returning from some emergency trip. They'll rush over and embrace me and tell me how much I've grown and how sorry they are. But they're still gone. 

I know they loved me. 

They must have, right?

I don't love me. 

I know I don't. 

Striving for perfection had been a flaw of mine. Even as a child I would throw a fit, had I not reached the goal I set for myself. Every ninety-nine I got on a test was followed by hours of crying and another hour because I felt stupid for crying over a test. There was always resentment in the back of my mind, haunting me in hours of sleep and forcing me to be my best.

It wasn't until they left that it turned into utter hatred. I don't mind my looks, really, I'm quite proud of them. Yet there's no mirror to be found in even the darkest crevice of my house, I had my mother's eyes and my father's build. There is no mirror because I don't want to see them either.

I've never made a real friend before. I've kissed girls at parties and talked to men while hammered, but I'd call none of them my friends. My own fears, my own hatred, has shoved a gag deep within my throat, it dries my tongue whenever in the presence of another and halts my words. There was always a slight stutter to my words, I think, but it's almost impossible to speak without it now. But I don't do much speaking, so that's okay. 

I'm a scientist, technically. I work in a bright white lab coat and mix dangerous chemicals for a living. I've created potent venoms for the games and painkillers for the weak. I do what I'm told because my parent's funds ran out six months ago and I've not had a full meal since. Only a year ago I was regarded as the smartest in my class, people were proud, and I hated that. Now I am no one and no one cares, and I hate this. 

It's my fault the money's gone. 'Cause I can't even function anymore without a drink. For a long while, I felt normal, I felt like an actual person when I drank because other people did that too. It calmed the  hurricane in my head and made all of my memories hazy like clouds. No eye's lingered on me when I danced with girls and spoke words free of stutters. I was nameless, faceless, in those places, another hook-up or another free drink. All my life that's what I wanted to be. Not the kid named after a fruit or the genius who's parents ran away, just a guy. There's some novelty to being normal when you're anything but, then when you're normal everything goes wrong again. I'm broke and hungry and scared and I still spend my pay on another bottle of whiskey.

And I hate this.

And I hate me.

{let the rain
was away all the pain
o f  y e s t e r d a y ;