Short Story
I take a deep breath and say my truth. The chest of my parents, Bernadette and Matthew raise as their eyes grow wide. This is me and they’re are not too happy at my always-been, but new to them identity. I can’t believe they never suspected their daughter to be a lesbian. Sometimes in shopping centers, I use to stare at the naked female mannequins before they were dressed. I use to gaze my friends in admiring of their delicate skin and glossy lips. This one classmate I constantly invited over for “studying”, I adored her the most. However, I’m not surprised. I covered it well. They never head the noises we made in my bedroom besides childlike giggles or even thought to glace through the ajar door to see what we were doing under the covers.
It’s said that actions speak louder than words and my mother proved this by taking a sip from her spearmint tea in a tiny cup. My father, on the other hand, scoffed, turned towards my mother, and began spewing black tar by saying, “you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” My mother kept her lips pressed against the rim of her china. Bernadette knew better than to speak over him. “This new generation.” Matthew growled.
“Dad-
“Stop! Might as well tell me you murdered someone.”
His glare is sharp while my eyes become watery. I inhale again and lock my lips. The taste of black tar is sour against my tongue, but I hold it in as best as I can and stand up. My mother follows behind me into my bedroom and watches me pack the rest of my things.
“Are you sure you want to begin your life like this, Morgan. Y-You know your father is giving so much to you. Why ruin that chance to attend the school of your dreams.”
I throw the strap of my duffel bag over my shoulder and stand before Bernadette. Her bottom lip is quivering. Maybe she wants me to say something. Yeah, I have a lot to say. Fuck off. This is my life. I don’t need your shitty money to pay for anything.
“I always thought you’d be the one to give me grandchildren.”
I nearly spew tar at her sorry dream. Let droplets of it splatter on her face as I laugh hysterically. Instead, I keep my mouth closed and gag at the bitter thick sensation of the liquid at the back of my throat.
As I’m heading out the front door, my brother, Dennis steps up to me from the living room still wearing his camouflage uniform. What a proud son he is going the path my father demanded him to take. He smirks at me and shakes his head. “There’s always one fuck up in the family.”
And I hope you die in battle. I gag again, throw my hand over my mouth, and shove past him out the door. I feel so filthy. Oily as if there’s a mask coating my entire face and sticky since I’ve been sweating from the moment, I entered into my parents house.
When I get home, you’re still there with the same joyful disposition I left seeing you with, sitting on the sofa reading the latest Sandra Brown novel. You ask me how everything went. I gag once more, drop my bag and dash to the bathroom. You managed to clean the entire apartment while I was away and thank goodness the toilet is clean. As the black tar I vomit, toilet water slashes on my face. Everything I wanted to say has come out. Thicker and darker than what my family spewed at me.
“Are you ok?” You question.
I shake my head no. “I feel dirty.”
“Sorry.” You say and nod your head towards the shower. “Lets get you cleaned up for bed.”
It’s nothing something new. It doesn’t come with every fifth generation and you understand that. It’s a feeling that’s been around since the dawn of creation otherwise what is it and why has it only been given to the “damned” ones.
You help me wash away the oil from my face using a homemade mix of grounded almond and avocado. You whisper that everything will be alright and recall the same reaction from your parents. Who needs them anyways? And by the end of heartache we are laughing in the comfort of each other.
Cover Photo by Anna Shvets from Pexels
“This is a work of fiction. Any semblance between original characters and real persons, living or dead, is coincidental. The author in no way represents the companies, corporations, or brands mentioned in this book. The likeness of historical/famous figures have been used fictitiously; the author does not speak for or represent these people. All opinions expressed in this book are the author’s, or fictional.”
