Pyromaniac.

3. defining relationships and pretty girls.

(The Weekend by SZA)

| 3. | defining relationships and pretty girls

A hangover had to be the most head-splitting thing in the world... a hangover after a week of nonstop partying with Parker, well, my brain was a slushie. I'd been home, trying to sleep off the headache since both my mother and my brother had been roaming about and lighting up really wasn't an option. Of course the mountain of covers hadn't been enough to deter Oliver Remmer from trying to speak to me about the argument that we'd apparently had and my teenage angst.

How he wasn't over that dumbass situation and it'd been a full week was besides me, for a man that made money off of being pretty, he sure wasn't self centered. Oh how I wished he was..

"Elliot, I know you're up." His voice had no hint of condescending-ness but maybe it was the fact that I'd already been so incredibly irritated and he wasn't helping. Rolling my eyes at that, I ripped a pillow from underneath my head and tossed it at the doorway where he lingered. I wanted to be a-fucking-lone but he didn't get that. "you missed."

He was laughing and I was even more irritated than before.

"Get the fuck out!"

"Elliot!" Mom's voice was loud and I sighed heavy before yelling out an apology. I often forgot when she was home since most of the time she wasn't. Working two jobs had to have been stressful on her: leaving at four in the morning and working until two in the afternoon at some collections office and then three to nine at a bank.

Most of the time I felt so guilty for not helping her much, only giving half the profit I'd made because I knew that if she caught wing of what I was doing, she'd actually kill me.

This time, I was just a little happy that she didn't have the energy to come smack me for my language.

But then I felt guilt again and I sighed heavy. Wasting whatever money I'd made doing odd jobs instead of helping her pay the bills out was a bitch move and I knew that. Trying not to feel bad for it, I shut my eyes again and turned over. I was a fuck up, such a huge fuck up.

"Get out of bed." Oliver had instructed but I didn't care less about the sternness in his voice, he wasn't my father. "Eli, we need to talk, it's four o'clock."

"We don't need to talk about shit." When I didn't move, I felt the blankets being ripped off my body. A chill ran up my spine as I laid there in my boxers, instantly I went to cover my body, wrapping myself in the sheets instead. "I need a fucking blunt."

"What?"

Ignoring that, I'd reached for my side table and grabbed at my depleting box of cigarettes. Pulling one out, I wished it wasn't tobacco but it was the closest I was gonna get to a stress free morning... well, afternoon. As soon as I sat up though, I could feel myself dry heaving, the food I'd eaten the night before coming up and I found myself grabbing at my trashcan and dropping the cigarette on the floor. Nearly missing, Oliver watched me blow chunks and I'd never felt as disgusting as I did when some of it landed on my bed.

"You need to take your insulin." And he was right, I hadn't taken it since the morning before, maybe that was why I felt so drowsy and even more nauseous than usual. Shaking his head, Oliver left me alone in my room and I sat there on the floor, vomiting, my head feeling so spacey, despite it being years since I'd been diagnosed, I hated this feeling.

When my brother had gotten back, he'd stripped my bed, moving me up to it as if I wasn't capable of standing myself. He stayed concentrated, unpacking my medical bag and going to place a cold rag in my hands. If he wasn't there, I didn't know what I'd do, mom was all the way across the house and I could already feel myself shaking.