The trouble with drugs is that no matter how much pain and misery they put you through, they become a part of you. And you will always want to go crawling back.
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t h e p r i n c e
"Add more salt, that tasted like fúcking water," Mark complained in his seat, pushing the plate of eggs I prepared for him away, "terrible."
"I'm sorry."
"I didn't ask for an apology, I told you to add more salt," He narrowed his piercing brown eyes at me. "Hurry up, I got to get to work."
I blinked rapidly to keep my tears back, sucking at my busted lip. Reaching into the spice cabinet, I pull out the salt shaker. Mark watched me intently, waiting for me to make a mistake. I shook the shaker over his eggs a few times before the lid slipped off, and all of the salt spilled over his breakfast.
"Goddamn it," he gritted. "Can't you do anything right?" My heart leaps to my throat when he stood from the table suddenly and stomped towards me. Snatching the container from my hands, Mark shoved me away.
"It was an accident!" I pleaded.
"You know, I always wake up thinking that maybe you could go one day without raising my blood pressure, but then you go ahead and do dumb shít like this."
"I asked you to do one simple task-" he ranted as if he was speaking to a four-year-old child, "and you fúcked it up. How hard is it to put salt on some damn eggs?! You must be retarded or something. Unbelievable!"
I stand and watch timidly, not knowing what to do or say. The pain from his words was constant and sharp. I wanted nothing more than to cry, but I knew that crying would only make things worse.
"Don't you have school? Go, I'm tired of looking at you."
I dashed into the living room, snatched my book bag, and avoided my mother, Akeelah, and sneak through the back. I caught the bus in silence both mentally and physically. I don't even bother to wipe the tears- letting them cool as they slide down my cheeks and dry. My mind was quiet, and so was the bus.
Passengers were are staring. I must have looked insane - my cotton shorts and black t-shirt, barely brushed hair, wet eyes and busted lip.
Marked slapped me right in the face that morning for not starting his breakfast on time, and the memory left an imprint on my skin.
The last thing I need is another questioning teacher.
Hastily, I left the bus stop and before I knew it, I was in the school parking lot.
In Golden Glades Sr. High School, the only people who bothered to remember my name were the eight teachers I had and the occasional custodian or security guard. I had little to no friends, but didn't mind. I liked being quiet and most people thought that since I was quiet, I must have been boring as well.
Being quiet solves problems before they even develop. No one can call me a liar if I never spoke. No one can call me fake, bítchy, mean or annoying if I never opened my mouth.
