Oliver Ausman Lives Again

one

this chapter is dedicated to GalaxyCommunity and BiancaAlejandra90 
for helping me decide on a cover! ❤

It's been a week since I left the hospital, which was just about the dullest place I've ever been-- and yet, as I look around the backyard, filled with a bunch of my relatives and friends of my parents, I wish I was back there.

Out of all these people-- who are at my birthday party, I should mention-- there's only one that I can honestly say I like. My younger brother Charlie sits across from me at our designated table, shoveling forkful after forkful of cake into his mouth. I can't blame him-- the cake is about the only enjoyable part of this whole thing.

Year after year, it's the same ordeal: my mom invites a bunch of people over, and I have to pretend to give a shit about them, all while they're pretending to give a shit about me and the fact that I'm turning whatever age. This time, it's eighteen, which apparently was my mom's cue to go berserk and invite what seems like everyone she's ever met.

Not to mention, this year I'm also stuck wearing long sleeves in the middle of May and pretending like I didn't just get out of the psych ward, so forgive me if I'm not in the partying mood.

"Oliver," Charlie speaks up, the words barely understandable through the mouthful of chocolate cake. The colorful icing is decorating his pale face and blonde hair almost as much as the cake itself. If mom was around to see him eating so messily, she'd have a fit. He finishes chewing and continues, "Are you mad?"

"Mad?" I guess I was scowling. I am mad, but for Charlie's sake, I'll pretend the answer is no. "Why would I be mad?"

"I heard you tell Mom and Dad you didn't want a party this year." He shrugs, scraping more icing off his paper plate.

"Yeah, well." I purse my lips, spotting our parents in the crowd. They're laughing with another couple and sipping at their champagne. "Just 'cause it's my birthday doesn't mean it's my party."

I asked to not have a party this year in light of recent events, i.e, my suicide attempt, but mom insisted on upholding the tradition. So here I am, sweating in my backyard and wishing I could go inside to be in air-conditioned solitude. You know, if it wasn't her social event of the season I'm not sure she'd even remember my birthday.

Charlie raises an eyebrow, clearly not getting it. I guess he wouldn't-- he likes having a big bash in his honor every year. For me, dealing with a bunch of strangers and just about every living relative that I have, answering their questions about school and my future and blah blah blah... it all feels like a big waste of time. Then again, I guess everything does lately.

"Charlie, look around. Do you think I would've picked any of this?" I gesture to the grassy field, filled with tables with white tablecloths. A stage is set up near the house, where a cover band in white suits play a pop song I wish I could say I've never heard. Guests group near the long tabletops of catered food and under the huge sun canopies, where waiters walk carrying trays of tiny sandwiches and glasses of champagne. "It looks like a fucking wedding."

Charlie's blue eyes widen behind his glasses at the swear and the expression makes me crack a smile. Even if I may not be in the best mood, I am glad Charlie's talking to me-- we haven't spoken much since I went to the hospital. It's my own fault, really, but I just haven't known what to say. 

"Sorry," I apologize for my language, "But it does. And in case you didn't realize, I'm not old enough to drink alcohol, I don't like cucumber sandwiches or pasta salad, and even though the cake is good, my favorite flavor is vanilla, not chocolate. Oh, and whoever this band is? Not a fan of theirs, either. Mom picked this stuff so her snobby friends would have a good time. The only thing she let me decide on was casual attire, and trust me, it wasn't easy getting her to agree to that."

I don't know why I'm so mad about Mom's choices, since even if the party wasn't aimed at a bunch of forty-year-old's, it isn't like I would've had anyone to invite. If you think that sounds pathetic, just know that my options are severely limited-- The Northview School for Boys isn't the kind of place you make friends. In fact, hanging out with a bunch of forty-year-olds doesn't seem half bad in comparison to all the stuck up kids I have to sit in class with every day.

"Charles!" Mom's voice pulls me from my thoughts as she hurries over to our table. I cringe at the name-- Charlie, I want to correct her. He's eight, not eighty.

"Yeah?" He looks up at her, oblivious to the mess on his face.

"You've got cake all over! Here, we'll go get you cleaned up." She holds out a hand for him, which in contrast to Charles seems like such a patronizing gesture, like he can't walk to the house by himself. She's reaching out far, probably trying to avoid getting icing on her white blouse.

"I'll take him," I offer, standing from my chair. I'm not about to pass up the opportunity to get away from all this. God, it's hot for May-- I don't even think about what I'm doing as I roll up my sleeves.

"Oliver!" she snaps, looking at me like I'm insane as she tries to yank the blue flannel back down my right arm.

"Jesus--" I jerk back, huffing as I slide the sleeves down my arms again to cover the thick, vertical scars at my wrists. Six red, slightly raised testaments to my grand failure. "I forgot, okay? It's hot." 

She's too busy looking around, making sure no one noticed my wrists to see me roll my eyes. Knowing her friends, if anyone saw, then everyone saw. Charlie stands between us, his eyes on the grass as he shifts his weight from side to side. Much to Mom's disapproval, he knows what I did-- Dad told him, insisting he was old enough and that it would be better if he knew the truth. It was one thing Mom couldn't sway him on, and I'm glad he stood his ground. I wouldn't feel right lying to Charlie about what happened, even if it is hard knowing what he must think of me.

"Just let me help Charlie," I break the silence, hoping she'll agree even though I'm not sure Charlie needs anyone's help. I'm pretty sure he can wash his face without adult supervision. Her eyes are back on me now, and I've got that familiar feeling in my stomach again, like someone's stirring its contents with a spoon. "I could use a minute inside."

She shakes her head, brown bob swishing as she grabs Charlie's hand. "I'm not letting you abandon your own party, Oliver. And would you please make an effort to talk to some guests? You've been sitting at that table for the past hour."

She turns, dragging Charlie along and leaving me alone. I do technically talk to someone-- I say thank you to one of the passing waiters as I take a champagne glass from his tray, downing it with a single swig. Happy birthday to me.

Thank you for reading the first chapter of Oliver Ausman Lives Again! Please feel free to let me know what you think ❤