trash can, turned, intentionally smashed the bag of food with both hands, and threw the meal she’d bought for him at the bottom of the waste basket.
"Here's what I think of you, mother !"
The smile deflated. She looked, above all, saddened by his hurtful reaction to her good deed. He knew all she wanted was to make his empty stomach full; what he wanted was to make her full heart empty.
Her shock made him feel better, worse. He actually felt worse than she did. He hated what he was doing, but liked it, invited it, hated himself for doing it, and hated himself for even considering loving her.
He knew she loved him.
Nobody loves me! I won't let them!
"Fuck you and your goddamn food! I don't need it. I don't want it! You got that?"
She looked as though she'd been hit in the stomach by a sledgehammer. The words she tried to speak came out more like little squeals. To degrade her further, Adam mocked her with small, sarcastic squeals of his own.
He laughed.
Adam rushed over to her and her poor, lost face. She wanted to cry, but Adam beat her to the draw. Tears streamed down his cheeks when he flew past her and headed upstairs.
"Mother, I hope you fucking die!" he said when he reached the top. He could not believe he said it, or had said it before. It was like pouring salt onto a wound over and over again just to see if it still hurt.
Adam entered his room and slammed the door shut, crying. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck! " He flailed his arms about, as if trying to knock out an invisible opponent. All pieces of his togetherness were shattering. Adam did not hit his walls or kick his door. He sat down on the bed, drooling, and grabbed the utility knife off the nearby nightstand. In the heat of the moment, he opened the blade and ran it across his outer forearm. Blood immediately surfaced, ran, and dripped to the ugly green carpet. Some pain went away, so he cut deeper.
More relief and more blood.
He cut a third time. Deeper still. "I can't goooo oooon!" His arm was dripping, oozing, running blood. He didn't cut any vein or artery, but he did come close on the last one.
***
By the time he was done, fourteen deep lacerations crisscrossed his left arm. The sheets, the pillow, Adam's clothes—all covered in blood. The most painful thing to Adam wasn't the wounds or the way he'd hurt his mother; it was that tomorrow he would have to start this same bullshit all over again.
***
The rest of the day and night, Adam was either sleeping or crying. He was surprised that his mother did not once come upstairs to check on him. And he contemplated going back down, taking the food out of the garbage, and eating it.
Before he knew it—
"Adam! Get up! Time for school !"
Oh, no.
"I ain't going," he grunted, burying his head under the pillow. He counted in his head: four, three, two, one—
"Adam, please get up."
He almost had her alarm down to a science.
Through a slit in his eye, he watched the sunlight shine in through the window. Way too bright.
“ Adam, you're going to have to get up now!" she said, bursting into the room.
As if attacked by an assailant, he jolted up and said, "What! I'm awake, okay? I'm tired. I want to go back to sleep, if that's not too fucking much to ask! "
She slapped her thighs with her hands. "Let's go !"
"No. You can't fucking make me! Fuck school!"
She stormed over to him and pulled the covers off his body. "Your bus leaves in fifteen minutes, so you'd better hurry. Come on!"
Adam looked into her eyes—deep. For the first time, she was afraid of what she saw. He looked like he wanted to murder her, hide her body, and go on with life as usual.
Not my Adam.
"I'm staying here. Sleep."
"You're going to school. Now."
The fuse blew.
He grabbed the lamp off his stand and winged it across the room with full force. His mother flinched. The porcelain thing shattered into fragments against the wall over the TV. A piece of shrapnel cracked a window.
She had underestimated his power, his strength, and
"Here's what I think of you, mother !"
The smile deflated. She looked, above all, saddened by his hurtful reaction to her good deed. He knew all she wanted was to make his empty stomach full; what he wanted was to make her full heart empty.
Her shock made him feel better, worse. He actually felt worse than she did. He hated what he was doing, but liked it, invited it, hated himself for doing it, and hated himself for even considering loving her.
He knew she loved him.
Nobody loves me! I won't let them!
"Fuck you and your goddamn food! I don't need it. I don't want it! You got that?"
She looked as though she'd been hit in the stomach by a sledgehammer. The words she tried to speak came out more like little squeals. To degrade her further, Adam mocked her with small, sarcastic squeals of his own.
He laughed.
Adam rushed over to her and her poor, lost face. She wanted to cry, but Adam beat her to the draw. Tears streamed down his cheeks when he flew past her and headed upstairs.
"Mother, I hope you fucking die!" he said when he reached the top. He could not believe he said it, or had said it before. It was like pouring salt onto a wound over and over again just to see if it still hurt.
Adam entered his room and slammed the door shut, crying. "Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuuck! " He flailed his arms about, as if trying to knock out an invisible opponent. All pieces of his togetherness were shattering. Adam did not hit his walls or kick his door. He sat down on the bed, drooling, and grabbed the utility knife off the nearby nightstand. In the heat of the moment, he opened the blade and ran it across his outer forearm. Blood immediately surfaced, ran, and dripped to the ugly green carpet. Some pain went away, so he cut deeper.
More relief and more blood.
He cut a third time. Deeper still. "I can't goooo oooon!" His arm was dripping, oozing, running blood. He didn't cut any vein or artery, but he did come close on the last one.
***
By the time he was done, fourteen deep lacerations crisscrossed his left arm. The sheets, the pillow, Adam's clothes—all covered in blood. The most painful thing to Adam wasn't the wounds or the way he'd hurt his mother; it was that tomorrow he would have to start this same bullshit all over again.
***
The rest of the day and night, Adam was either sleeping or crying. He was surprised that his mother did not once come upstairs to check on him. And he contemplated going back down, taking the food out of the garbage, and eating it.
Before he knew it—
"Adam! Get up! Time for school !"
Oh, no.
"I ain't going," he grunted, burying his head under the pillow. He counted in his head: four, three, two, one—
"Adam, please get up."
He almost had her alarm down to a science.
Through a slit in his eye, he watched the sunlight shine in through the window. Way too bright.
“ Adam, you're going to have to get up now!" she said, bursting into the room.
As if attacked by an assailant, he jolted up and said, "What! I'm awake, okay? I'm tired. I want to go back to sleep, if that's not too fucking much to ask! "
She slapped her thighs with her hands. "Let's go !"
"No. You can't fucking make me! Fuck school!"
She stormed over to him and pulled the covers off his body. "Your bus leaves in fifteen minutes, so you'd better hurry. Come on!"
Adam looked into her eyes—deep. For the first time, she was afraid of what she saw. He looked like he wanted to murder her, hide her body, and go on with life as usual.
Not my Adam.
"I'm staying here. Sleep."
"You're going to school. Now."
The fuse blew.
He grabbed the lamp off his stand and winged it across the room with full force. His mother flinched. The porcelain thing shattered into fragments against the wall over the TV. A piece of shrapnel cracked a window.
She had underestimated his power, his strength, and
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