WP EXCLUSIVE | old/unedited | #1 in freetheboy, traumacore, boyscrytoo, and cynicism | Genre(s): realistic, psychological, new adult fiction.
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Eighteen-year-old Tyler Petrit is tired. He's tired of his drug-addicted father always blaming him f...
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I drop the crumpled daisies and stare at her. "How...how did you recognize me? I-I was worried you wouldn't."
"Why wouldn't I recognize my own son?" She gives me half of a smile, but her voice is emotionless. "Come in."
There's a joyful lump in my throat. I hesitantly limp inside. It's average, but miles better than the shitty places I'm used to. The floors are made of slick tile, and don't make me cringe like the creaky wood floors my house has.
She tells me to sit on the couch. I have five hundred questions, but I can't dive in right away or she'll get thrown off and possibly not answer me at all. I start with, "How are you?"
"Fine. Coffee?"
"No, thanks."
"What do you do these days?"
Considering her tone, I'm surprised, but excited, that she wants to know anything about me. "I draw and listen to music a lot, and I have the most beautiful girlfriend in the world."
"Oh, that's nice." She pauses. We both know it's awkward. "Has the neighborhood changed?"
"Not really. A lot of the people are still there. I don't know if you remember the Rodriguez family. Gio's still my best friend. What about you?"
"I've been living," she responds, voice clipped.
A weird ticking cat clock overpowers us. I examine the house more while she sips coffee. Old hippie art is painted on the walls, with a dark pink background. Naked women and men with crowns of stars, rainbow-striped lips, and flowers for eyes. Good Morning, Sunshine dances around their heads in curved, trippy letters.
"Excuse me for a sec," I say.
The art piece extends the entire hallway. There's sapphic relationships sprinkled throughout, though it looks like she made an effort to hide them. There's mushrooms and FLOWER POWER growing from the skin of the men, who have soft feminine features in contrast to most of the women having manly, squared jawlines. There are paintings of music notes and barefoot street dancers of all colors. It gets more religious near the end, with depictions of saints and a glowing baby Jesus. The saints are gathered around a human heart, sparkles dashing off it like it's on fire. Everything correlates into a massive mural that covers an entire section of the house.
And I am utterly entranced by it.
My mom may have left me, but she hasn't left 1975.
"Did you paint all this?" I call. "It's mesmerizing."
"I did." She rewards me with a full smile. "I've been working on it for a little over a decade. It's supposed to represent my maturity, my journey to sobriety. God, I smoked so much weed, drank too much. I can't imagine doing that now. Too teenage."
