By My Side

Just Another Morning

I awaken the next morning with nausea and a stomach cramp. You'd have to be an idiot to not call in sick...

Did I ever say I was smart? I look at my clock, 6:15, fifteen minutes before my parents think I get up. I always take fifteen minutes to collect myself each morning, writing, convincing myself that I can get through another day with the two anti writing... actually, scratch that. I'm dad's kinda a dick, but he at least accepts that I write. He'll help me a little, but for every but he helps, he insults me a hundred times more and stops me from writing at least five times.

I grab my phone and begin writing a chapter, just a paragraph or two to calm my nerves. Afterwards, I lie back down until a second alarm goes off at 6:30. This time, I get up and actually start getting ready.

I put on my clothes, and heads upstairs. I do sleep in the basement, but it's not because my parents are assholes, it's because I chose to. I have to deal with them a lot less that way, and when anything like what happened last night occurs, it's easy to hide it.

I put on my jacket, my precious grey jacket. This jacket, is a part of me. I wear it in Summer when my parents don't notice. It's old, it's torn at the sleeves, but it's my favorite jacket, and I wouldn't trade it for the world.

However, being a famous author without getting my story fucked up by the editor  (literally my greatest fear), I'd sell this jacket in a heart beat. I'd sell my soul if it meant getting out of this town. I actually like this town, but hate my family.

I hear my mom yelling at my big brother, Shawn, to get up. His alarm clock went off two minutes ago. She has no patience at all, and it's infuriating. It's funny how she can put on face in front of others, and then bitch about a five minute incident for three days that they caused to me, and don't even get me started on if I screw up. She'll bitch about it for a week, sometimes two weeks. I've found the best thing to do is to do as she does, put on face, flatter her, and vent to those who ACTUALLY give a shit about me.

I'm ready for school long before Shawn or my little brother, Justin. My little brother is a bit of a brat. He doesn't take no for an answer, doesn't listen, and is incredibly rude and selfish. Still love him though, he's like half my age, and I need to be there in case my parents start to insult him like they do me and Shawn.

My brother Shawn, we all three look very similar. Shawn looks a lot like me, brown hair, brown eyes, medium height, fair skinned. The only difference between me and Shawn is that he's taller than me, has a larger nose, wears glasses, and has no freckles. Also, I have a lot more hair on my chest, legs, etc. We're both skinny, me more than him. It runs in the... I would say family, but I believe a better term would be, "bad joke."

My little brother is the splitting image of me in terms of looks, just younger. As such, he won't be graced with a detailed description. Already ready for school, but not allowed to write of the mornings, I sit on the couch, trying not to draw attention to myself as I struggle to stay awake. I woke up again around four, so I didn't get much sleep.

After my brother and dad finally get ready, we begin to leave. I let Shawn take the front seat, Justin having already gone to his school with my mother. I sit in that seat, quiet as can be, waiting for the next passive agressive comment or insult. It's coming, I just don't know when.

It happens when we get out of the car. With an arrogant smirk, Isaiah, my bastard of a father says, "bye ladies."

Now, ladies, I have nothing against you. You're as strong as men, and I find it morally disgusting to use you as an insult, but questioning my man hood still hurts. Look, I'm white, I'm genetically male, and I identify as male. How much of a dick does he have to be to question that when he's the guy who said that, "this generation is so stupid with this trans shit."

Maybe you shouldn't say something bad about my generation being accepting when your son is two fucking feet away!...

I wish I could say that, but I can't. I just get out of the car and leave, immediately beginning to write as a voice in my head screams to Isaiah, "shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" All the things I want to say, burried deep down. As I write, I begin to feel better. The voice stops, but I still feel that twitching, that burning desire to write more. That all consuming itch.

I manage to write some in my first two classes, venting my rage through the pen, but my third class is a bit different. It is taught by a man named Mr. Tailor.

Mr. Tailor, I bet God made him to answer the question, "how much of a prick can a human be and get away with it?"

The answer, if you make them stupid arrogant, and damn good at lying, a lot. He's so unbearably prideful, it makes me sick. He uses a discipline system where if if one person screws up, it effects everyone. That is so revolting, it alone is enough to make him the worst man I have ever met.

I write as I enter the class, sitting next to a cute blonde girl named Hannah. She's a bit taller than me, and I'm not sure if she likes me or just my books, and a change seats in the class every week, but I still enjoy talking to her. May ask her if she wants to text, talk other than in the class later. I mean, may as well try (and fail.)

So, I ask, and guess what happens, just, guess.

Yup, doesn't work out. So, moving on, back to writing. I continue what I was working on as Mr. Tailor speaks, and gets into the whole class for what one guy did. When he does it, he requires us to yell, "have mercy!"

A voice in my head screams, "who cares!?!"

I stay silent.

As I write more, having fished the worksheet I was given, I notice my appetite is lacking. I don't feel hungry at all, which is perplexing, usually by this time of day I'm starving, but there just isn't any hunger.

I try to ignore this, now in denial. I can't be sick. I won't be sick. I won't stay home, no matter what. Even if that would help me recover physically, emotionally, there's no recovery from my parents.

I know I'm sick, and that I shouldn't be here, but I'd rather be here sick, than home with them. I decide to stay, hoping my friends at lunch, my real family, can offer some advice...