Dark Chocolate Cherry

CURTAIL

I'm especially joyous this evening due to a particular, extremely sexy reason.

My father notices it when I walk in the door and open up the refrigerator. "What's the matter with you?"

"What are we having for dinner?" I ask. "I have a craving for spaghetti."

"I'm not sure if we have any spaghetti." I open a few cupboards and pull out a box of linguine noodles, raising my eyebrows. "Well, well, well. Aren't you savvy?"

"I know." I search for some sauce and a pan for boiling water, then get started on the noodles. Unfortunately, we don't have any hamburger or ground turkey to make the sauce a little more flavorful, but I don't mind. Tonight we'll dine like vegetarians.

"How was your day?" my father asks.

"The usual. And yours?"

"The usual."

I taste the sauce to decide if it needs anything. "Maybe today was just one of those usual kind of days."

"Maybe." He pauses. "Inge."

I turn around, and my father's face is serious. "Are you high?"

I frown, and then shake my head. My father raises his eyebrows. "Inge, I can smell it on you."

"I'm not high."

"Don't give me that," my father snaps. "Are you really that much of an idiot? God, I can smell it on you all the way over here!"

"I talked to somebody who had a cigarette."

"Don't lie to me!" he yells so loudly I almost jump. "I am sick and tired of your lies, young lady. Go to your room! Now!"

My mood ruined, I storm upstairs and slam the door as hard as I can. I contemplate finding my cigarettes and giving them to my father, but I don't want him to know how many I have. I also don't think I can look at a cigarette without lighting it. I pick up my backpack and throw it into the corner of the room.

I should have just offed myself when I was ready: slit my wrists the moment I could find a razor or jumped into the lake once I found a bridge. Now I'm stuck in a measly pit of agony trying to claw myself out. If only I was dead now, and I never had to come to this terrible state with these terrible people and ruin my own godforsaken worthless life.

My hand comes away from my eyes wet. I try to wipe the tears away, but they won't stop. The moment I don't want the sadness it decides to come anyway. How hideously inconvenient.

I slide onto the ground and crawl into the corner next to my backpack. I unzip the front pocket and find my phone, signing in and scrolling through my song list. I find the happiest one possible, which happens to be Young Volcanoes by Fall Out Boy. I listen for a while, and then my father knocks on the door.

"I think the spaghetti's ready," he says quietly.

"I'm not hungry," I answer, trying not to sound sad.

"You should still eat."

I pause the music. "Then I'll gain weight and become a fat, lazy slob."

"No, you won't. Come and eat some spaghetti."

"I told you: I'm not hungry."

"Inge, you're already in big enough trouble. I'm sure you don't want to get into any more."

I'm already living in a heap of trouble. Why doesn't he see? "I am aggressively, tremendously, extraordinarily satiated, and if I eat any more food I think I might burst open and my lower intestines will fly everywhere and my entire bedroom will be completely and utterly covered in—"