Worship You

Chapter Five - The Ugliness of Money

So now I've said it for the first time: Neither of us had any money. This a matter of great shame to people. It's better to be dead than poor in this country and everybody knows it. It has a lot to do with what happened, I guess, so I might as well admit to it. I had no money. Neither did Cassie. Therefore, nobody thought we mattered.

At that time I didn't know anything about Cassie's family. I think I didn't really ever imagine she had a family, or didn't want to. All I wanted was Cassie. Alone. Perfect. Only meant for me.

My family.

Wait. Let me start that again.

My family. Jesus.

Losers doesn't begin to cover it. Evidently my mother became pregnant with me when she was in high school. And they got married. And then it was a long slog down to the bottom for the both of them. I don't hate my parents. Not exactly. But I've always been ashamed of them. My father was a postal worker. A Mailman. Perfect, right? My mother is drunk. Not a drunk, just drunk. All the time just slightly day and night.

The two of them hated every moment they drew breath together. And then my father ran away so now they can hate their lives separately.

Let me say a word about our house. I've read the newspaper descriptions of our house and I don't recognize the place:

                                           Killer's Family Lost on a Sea of Horror

                                                             By Nate Holmby

                     ... The family lives in a modest, clean little home just off highway 101..."

Modest? Clean? So what does that bring to mind? Something like those houses that the First-Graders do? Smoke curling out of the chimney? Flowers in boxes on the windows and shrubs in front? Happy stick figure family standing outside hand-in-hand under a bright butter yellow sun?

SORRY! Obviously good ol' Nate Holmby didn't even bother to visit the "alleged killer's devastated family" in their home and discover for himself that the place is a pigsty. He did the whole interview over the phone. It's a crappy little cheese box of a house that my father was able to buy only because there was a terminal case of black mould in the walls and ceilings that made human habitation almost impossible. But we managed. Probably by dousing the place in industrial strength solvent the kind of thing you're supposed to avoid on pain of cancer. The place reeks of rot and decay and the filth is everywhere, building up in the cracks and corners like the house has thick scabs from old wounds. I can't remember a time when the place didn't make my skin crawl. Even when I was really little when most kids are in love with their world and think their little rat trap home is a palace or something, I knew it sucked. Then it scared me. Now I hate it.

It sure is a sad commentary on the American Dream and where it leaves you. I hated that place so much and I always wanted to leave as soon as I could. Well, I'm out of there now so that's something.

Typical. Everything's fake. I can see Mom now, lying her ass off about what a charming little house it is.

Oh, we're simple folks, Mr. Holmby. WE don't put on airs.

My poor mother. When I don't hate her, I feel my broken heart.

Oh. And there's also my little brother. I almost forgot. He's five years younger and I never pay him any attention and he's quiet, so quiet he's like a ghost that you glimpse down the hall slipping into his room. He shuts the door and he's gone as if he was never there.