The Boy and the Beast

13| lament

"Oh, you poor, poor child," the old lady pats her sausage-like fingers down on my blazer. Her purple glazed, chapped lips smack together uncomfortably, sniveling as if she's sick.

I blink at her as she drenches her thumb in saliva. I back away, avoiding her sticky finger contact, but her sharp nails dig into my shoulder. She pulls me closer, swiping her wet thumb over my forehead.

The sticky bodily fluid feels like acid against my skin, churning my stomach into a washing machine of vomit fluxing to come out.

Family gatherings are the worst.

I don't even understand why the woman is pitying me, we're at a wedding, not a funeral.

My dad clings a fork to his crystal wine glass, the sharp wallow of the delicate structure enough to claim my ability to hear. I turn to the man neatly dressed up in a black tuxedo and how much loved cowboy hat—he's always wearing the damn hat. Maybe it's to remind him of his youthful days back in Texas before he had to move to Florida when grandpa died.

To no one's surprise, I was born in Florida and not in Texas [that explains my lack in a dominant southern accent, even though I have snippets of it]. My sisters were all born in Texas, hell, even my mother was born in Texas. I broke the chain—well, my parents broke it when they decided it was a great idea to conceive me.

If they didn't conceive me, this woman wouldn't have indirectly licked me right now.

"Family, friends," my dad starts, "let's give a warm welcome to the new Mr. and Mrs. Brody Burke!"

My blood thickens simultaneous to the echo of those words. The words able to spin my world around—not in the good way, in the tornado way.

Mr. and Mrs. Brody Burke?

Malarkey really got married to Brody, of all people? I thought this was a phase, just like her Axl Rose phase or her Breakfast Club phase.

But she looks so happy. Her complexion is radiating with energy brighter than the starts, glittering happiness like the morning sunlight as she clutches onto the piece of meat by her side. She's beautiful, no argument. The elegant ivory gown fits her petite structure perfectly, hugging each feature and accentuating her assets. Her makeup highlights her youthfulness and makes her look all the more angelic.

And Brody looks happy too.

He's smiling with all his dorky teeth on display, fluttering his eyes over Malarkey lovingly and flirtatiously. She returns the gaze, awestruck by the man beside her.

It hurts.

As if she's forgetting I exist. As if I don't matter anymore. I don't want to congratulate her on the vows, or the rings or anything, because I didn't want her to get married. That chunk of rock is nothing but a symbol that he is allowed to get into her pants legally.

Getting married at twenty five is completely ridiculous—I would never dare it. Hell, I don't even think I'll get married. I'm too scared I wouldn't love my wife the way she deserves to be loved or be admired the way she deserves to be admired. But I'm scared to grow up to be a lonely old man living in a rotting apartment building they want to get of, but you don't want to move.