Mom loses it all the time...just not in front of other people. We have to hide, see. But it boils over sometimes. We can't help it. Tonight, we're like dominoes; I fell and I pushed her into being a bitch to Dr Brody. The cuts are open and my sticky red insides are falling out and Mom and I, we're just exposed.
"He's not fine. He's not goddamn fine, Em. He exhibits seriously worrying behaviours."
"Don't you dare label my son like that," she snaps. "You have no idea."
There's a dull thump, as if someone just struck a wall. "No idea? How can you not notice his issues? You're his mother. I swear, I've tried with him—you know I've tried!—but he's a closed shop."
When something bad happens to me and Mom, I try to learn from it. And what I've learned here is that although Mom and Dr Brody have only been dating for like, four months and two weeks, the asshole has been watching me. I need to hide a lot better.
"He's been through a lot. You know that. His father just disappeared."
"But it isn't just me he's dysfunctional with, Em. You watch him—he doesn't form relationships with boys, or men. Not real ones. And he surrounds himself with fawning girls that he gets to do his dirty work. That incident at the little league thing, that fucking chilled me. He needs help."
"He's going to play football instead." There's a soothing tone to her voice, as if she can bring him down from this. "It'll be fine, baby."
"You think that's the point? Seriously?"
"I don't know what the point is. What are you saying? You think...you think he's gay?"
He laughs, high-pitched and crazy. "No, I don't think he's gay. I think he's a manipulative little shit who's upstairs cutting himself, and worse, the only person you're worried about is yourself!"
Mothers have to take care of themselves. It's like the law, or something. Besides, I have tissue and I don't need stitches. The bleeding has almost stopped so long as I don't move.
"You're crazy," Mom tells Dr Brody in her this is your fault voice. "You're crazy and you're projecting on to me and my son, who is troubled. He's troubled, and I try so freaking hard with him but when you're on your own, it's not easy to be the mother and the father. How can I give him everything he needs?" And now she's turned on the tears. Here we go. Lights, trauma, action! "He's a clever boy, baby. He has potential. You said that."
You have to admit, she's good. Me, I'm still learning. Obviously.
"What he needs is another therapist. I can't deal with this anymore. Em, I'm sorry." He falters; there are quiet weeping sounds, though I can't tell who they belong to. "Let me give him a referral, I know a great guy—"
"Oh, fuck you. Just get out already." Then she begins to mutter, but it sounds like I'm done, we're done.
"Good luck dealing with the revolting heap of mommy issues you're breeding up there," Dr Brody spits back.
I need to remember that. I'll look it up in the library.
A shrill shatter of glass; a yelp; a stomped foot. Dominoes fall hard when they're bleeding.
With my forehead cold against the tiled bathroom wall, I listen to Mom lose it. The sounds are familiar, like a heartbeat or favourite song. Like a lullaby.
My blood dries to paste on the floor.
#12
Monogamy (noun): the sanitized culmination of desire and obsession. (Note: it is not a cage unless you forget where you put the fucking key).
The thing about romantic relationships is that I've been pretending so long, it's become second nature.
Before Tuija, there was college, where lying my way through a six-week "thing" with a sorority girl didn't make me any different to any other guy. And before college there was high school, where I tolerated the expected hook-ups and then concentrated on being too hot and aloof to care. Nobody questions the man at the top of the food chain. He's obviously fucking whomever he wants, whether or not you know about it; why meddle when perhaps, just perhaps, the next person he fucks could be you...?
One of the biggest misconceptions about sociopaths is that we don't know what we are. Which is bullshit. We vary in levels of intelligence of self-awareness, just like anyone else; I, of course, was repeatedly beaten with the superior end of the stick. I fell out of the better-than-you tree. Let's not be bitter about it; if you want to succeed, you must accept who you truly are. A fault's only a fault if you just lie down and let it walk all over you.
So here I am grasshoppers, a sociopath, suddenly writhing within the confines of an actual relationship with Leo. Foreign territory, but nothing ventured, nothing gained. People claim you need certain elements for these arrangements to work: communication, they say. Leo and I talk, and sometimes we aren't even threatening each other with weapons (ha).
Commitment, they say. I appear to have bought her entire fucking livelihood. If that's not commitment, I don't know what is.
Trust, they say. I disagree. Trust is something you retain for future exploitation, not the kind of buzzkill you want to take to bed.
I don't need to retain anything to exploit Leo further because I'm exploiting her right now, and not only does she get off on it, but she's utterly complicit—or she's at least pretending as much so she can fail pitifully at screwing me over and then hate herself for still wanting my cock. God, aren't relationships beautiful things?
You're all fucking doing it wrong.
***
Since Ethan enjoys keeping his job—and is, to his credit—good at it, Ash is currently flinging himself around the kitchen in a dubok (white ninja robes to you and I).
"I couldn't find Karate on a Thursday," Ethan says apologetically from over the top of his lumpy brown smoothie. "But I found Tae Kwon Do. That's okay, right?"
"It'll do."
"You know, I'm kinda tempted myself." Ethan grins, revealing snotty wedges of banana stuck between his teeth. "I stayed for the first session and the black belts get to break stuff. Like karate chop it. Freaking badass."
Here's thirty seconds in Ethan's head, courtesy of the fact that I'm not a fucking moron:
Is this smoothie meant to be brown?
Do bananas, like, oxidise or something? I read that on cracked.com. They totally oxidise. Gross.
Can't waste Mr Lore's bananas. Have to drink this mofo. Actually it tastes pretty—
Where's Ash? What was that noise?
Aw shit, are we late for little league?
No, little league's on Tuesdays. We get home just before Big Bang Theory.
He's a cute kid. And he's lucky. Goddamn, I wish I grew up in a sweet apartment like this.
My balls are itchy.
This is the guy who once told me he spent three days of his vacation in a fog of depression because he realised the Game of Thrones TV series will run out of books to adapt quicker than George RR Martin can write them.
Aren't you glad you're in my head instead?
"You still out tonight?" Ethan asks.
"Fundraiser." My cell vibrates in my hand; a message from Leo. "I'll be back early morning." I might be spending the evening with Leo, and the invitation back to her place might be implicit, but I won't be one of Those Dudes who moves in the minute he lays claim to a woman. I like my space. Besides, I have Ash's Fantasy Mom issues to deal with before a girl ever sets foot in here.
"What kinda fundraiser?" Ethan straightens the collar of his shirt. He's been smartening up for the school run lately; probably trying to bang a bored mommy. If that wouldn't impact his ability to do his job, I'd give him tips—no woman would've touched him in yesterday's black t-shirt, which said My Bad in small pink letters. "Anything cool?"
He means anyone cool, and what the hell. Let's indulge him. "Anyone who's anyone who's vegan in Hollywood, probably. It's an animal shelter thing." People kiss my ass; I give them money; they feel awkward blocking the ridiculous story one of my columnists publishes about them. Here we go round the fucking mulberry bush.
"Really? So, like, Jessica Alba?"
"I have no idea."
His pout of disappointment is comical.
***
Tech types have a certain kind of intelligence. It's not as cold as mine, but it's very, very specific—the kind that looks straight beyond people or emotions and sees only numbers and logic. I wouldn't want it for myself; it comes with a lack of social awareness that makes life difficult. But I find these types very useful. They're tools who make tools.