Oliver Ausman Lives Again

two

this chapter is dedicated to -delicateheart ! Thank you so much for supporting my stories, and for being so nice!! :')

I wash my hands, trying to prolong the process as much as possible. Finally, a moment alone-- as much as Mom didn't want me to step away from the party, even she couldn't find it in herself to deny me a bathroom break.

I have a suspicion, though, that if I'm not out there in a few minutes, she won't hesitate to come after me and drag me back outside. At least now that the sun is down it's cooler and the warmth from my flannel doesn't feel so suffocating.

I'm also grateful that the party's thinned out over the past few hours, leaving mostly family and a few of Mom's close friends. I know I need to go back out there. I just need to survive another hour, maybe two at most. But all the small talk has made me feel numb-- all I want to do is drag myself upstairs and get in bed.

Not to mention, lying takes a lot out of a guy, and it feels like I've lied more in the past four hours than I have in my whole life.

"How are you?" Has been asked by pretty much everyone. This one's easy to answer with a simple "Good," or, "Doing very well, thank you."

Both bullshit, but I'd argue that most of the human population gives a fake answer to such an asinine question-- because most of the human population doesn't want an honest answer. It's an expected courtesy that for some reason, we've cursed ourselves with. If you don't ask, you're an asshole, if you answer truthfully, you're a burden.

"How's Northview treating you in your last month?" Or something along those lines has been asked by a lot of the men, probably because they went there themselves and will take any opportunity to reminisce on their golden years. If these are my golden years, then my life is even more depressing than I think it is. But of course I can't say that, not to Dad's coworkers or Mom's older brothers, so I settled on a, "Oh, it's great. I'm very invested in my studies."

More bullshit.

"What are your plans after graduation?"

That one's been the hardest. I never planned to make it to graduation.

Just a few more weeks and I'll be walking across a stage, accepting some useless piece of paper that I'll shove in a drawer somewhere and probably never look at again, just like the rest of the memories Northview's given me.

And then what? College, I guess-- that's what my parents keep saying. I figure I may as well keep them happy, considering it doesn't seem like I'm ever going to be. Someone should at least get enjoyment out of my life.

I dry my hands on the hanging towel and readjust my sleeves before opening the door. I barely make it out of the doorway before nearly colliding with my Uncle Morris, who's supporting himself against the wall while stumbling towards the bathroom.

"Oliver!" he cheers and throws up his arms in celebration before I can apologize.

"Hi, Uncle Morris," I greet halfheartedly, barely raising my arm for a wave. From the looks of it, he's too drunk to notice my lack of enthusiasm. Surprise surprise, my relatives have officially started to drink themselves past tipsy and straight towards hammered. Just another thing I dread having to deal with every year.

"Happy birthday, Oli. Congrats on reaching adulthood-- it's all downhill from here!" He laughs at his own joke and I force myself to smile, ignoring the sick feeling it gives me. "That reminds me, you're eighteen-- I guess you finally know about Isaac. Personally I think Peter should've told you sooner, but he always insisted on your eighteenth, and you know how stubborn he can--"

"Isaac?" I question, too confused to feel bad for interrupting his drunken rambling.

"Your father," he says it as if it's obvious, like he's just jogging my memory. "Well, technically speaking. I'll always think of Peter as your father, even if it's not biological-- and you should, too."

My eyes widen, but he doesn't seem to notice that I have no fucking idea what he's talking about. I wish he'd slow down so I could gather my thoughts for a second-- they're racing, trying to put together pieces of a puzzle I didn't know I was a part of.

Morris continues, still oblivious to the fact that I've frozen in place. "I mean, our brother might've made you, but even if he had known you were his, I don't think he'd've taken much responsibility."

Our brother. It clicks. Issac-- Uncle Isaac. I've never met him and have barely even heard about him-- the few times I have were in lessons from my father (or Peter, I should say, because according to this conversation the word father doesn't really apply) on how not to behave and what not to do with my life. Isaac has been more of a warning story to me than a family member.

"Besides, Peter and your mom were already married, and you're a dead ringer for your mother, so no one ever questioned it." He shrugs. The words are falling out of his mouth so casually, like he doesn't even realize how screwed up what he's saying is.

"I..." I want to say something, to ask questions and get more information, but my mind feels like sludge. I can't seem to pull anything coherent out of the haze of disbelief.

The past eighteen years have been shrouded in a lie. I'm only fully related to one member of this family-- Peter is my uncle, and Charlie and I can't be anything more than half-brothers.

"So..." I shake my head, trying to lose the fog covering my thoughts. I don't want to seem too confused-- if he catches on and realizes I don't know anything, he might stop talking. "That's why my-- well, Peter-- that's why he hates... Isaac?" How am I even supposed to refer to these people anymore?

"Those two always butted heads," Morris slurs, waving my question away with his hand. "Certainly didn't help things between 'em, though." He laughs again, but this time I can't force myself to join him. It's hard to find humor in the fact that everything I know about my life is falling apart in front of my eyes.

"They haven't even talked since Carol got pregnant with you-- Peter had enough, cut off all communication. Isaac never even knew why, but he didn't really care. Our mother died just after your first birthday, so we all got our inheritance and he hightailed it up to Manhattan. Last I heard from him, he was working blue-collar-- really blue-collar-- some janitors job at a Hilton. The Millennium, I think..." he trails off, eyes looking up as he thinks it over.

I'm still frozen in place, so out of it that when he steps forward and pats me on the shoulder I lose my balance and stumble backward. "Anyway kid, happy birthday."

"Yeah," I mumble as he moves around me, stepping into the bathroom. I manage out a "Thanks," before he closes the door, leaving me more alone than I ever knew I was.

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