Not really, actually…

I go home around 2 am. I was hoping that my parents would be asleep so I could avoid the inevitable scolding, but I am hit with the classic lamp-snap as my mom is sitting on the recliner.

“Where were you?” She asks. Her cold eyes stared into me.

I rub the back of my neck, attempting to maintain a level of nonchalance. “Oh, you know, I was just… out. With some friends.”

“Some friends? Really? What are there names.”

“What?”

“Their names, Michael; what are they?”

I stare at her blankly. She knows I don’t have an answer.

She scoffs. “Like I thought. You were probably just out at God-knows-where smoking alone, right? That’s healthy for you, I’m sure. And where exactly is that going to get you, huh? Have you even looked at colleges? For a job? Anything?”

I continued staring. I hadn’t.

She rubbed her temples. “Why do I even bother. You don’t *care*. You… you’re just… *worthless*.”

She stood from her chair and went to her room.

I went to mine and cried myself to sleep.

-

I woke up a few hours later. My eyes still stung a bit.

I’m such a pussy.

I looked around my room. I’d grown up here, and the decor showed. Children’s toys still lined the walls. I’d matured some, obviously; some band posters, an old-school pinup girl, painted the room a darker grey rather than a bright blue… but it was still a child’s room.

That’s what I was, right? A child? A child with a smoking problem?

I needed to change.

And I didn’t want to look my mom in the face until I was worth something.

I grabbed a backpack and a duffel bag from my closet. I grabbed clothes, notebooks, and the little bit of money I had. I grabbed smokes, my guitar, and my pinup poster (if I had to keep any of them, I wanted that one). I grabbed a blanket, pillow, and my toothbrush.

Then I left my home, got in the car, and drove.

I watched as my mother’s home grew smaller and smaller in the rear-view mirror.