Yours | ✓

12 | Welcome to my Fucked Up Life

Chapter Twelve: Welcome to my Fucked Up Life

"I can't see the end, so I pretend it's sweet
until it crashes down, I know it's gonna crash,"
~ faouzia

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M O N I C A

   I don't know why I even bother trying new things.

   My mind likes to assume I can excel on everything I try, but when I decide to put my skills to the test, I feel complete and utter disappointment and want to give up immediately.

   It was Monday now, a few days after Sophie's party. Yesterday was my break, so I ended up heading to the home improvement store to buy some wood. I wanted to try something new and decided on building a coffee table, but after half a dozen hours sitting on the floor, I realized I sucked.

   Today was a new day, I continued to quote in my head when I woke up. So, after making some iced coffee and getting my shit together, I sat in the living room and looked at the power drill, saw, screws and several slabs of wood.

   "Mother fucking cunt," I hissed under my breath as the four by four block of wood didn't stay secured on the surface that I had planned to be the top of the coffee table.

   Fuelled by frustration, I hit my hand against the tall chuck of wood, only to hurt the palm of my hand in the process. "Cunt sucking asshole," I continued to cuss randomly as I stood up from my spot, rubbing my fingers against my palm.

   When I glared at the mess I'd made, I was ready to say fuck everything. But before I moved, I heard a door crack open from down the hall. Mom's body filled the entrance moments later. Her small figure was secured with a bathrobe, I noticed before I met her cautious expression.

   "Hi," she mumbled before looking to the floor.

   I didn't reply. My hatred for the coffee table subsided and I decided on keeping myself busy by trying to rebuild the legs of the table. So, I bent down, getting myself back to work. "Would you like breakfast?" I heard mom ask, closer than she was before.

When I looked up, I saw her standing just a few feet from me, clenching the fabric of her robe around her. A snort left me automatically, just at the thought of her cooking. I wondered when the last time she touched the stove.

   "Let me do this," I heard her plead when I looked back down to the drill. "I want to get to know my—"

   My eyes snapped to hers, silently daring her to call me her daughter. But when I met her gaze, I couldn't help but clench my jaw, seeing unshed tears in her eyes. My anger continued to rise at the thought of her trying to play the victim, like she deserved better.

   "You don't know anything about me," I spoke before thinking. She sucked in a breath and I stood up from my spot, my lips parting again. "I bet you don't even know what I like for breakfast."

   Trick question. I don't eat breakfast, I have coffee until lunch.

   When dad died, I didn't know how to use a stove. I got used to just warming myself up some frozen food in the microwave and by the time I knew how to make eggs, I'd already adapted to holding in my hunger until later.

   Her lips parted but nothing came out. I took that as my sign to exit, walking around her unmoving body before stepping into my room moments later. When the door closed behind me, I leaned against it and breathed out softly.

   "No one actually knows me," I mumbled the truth under my breath.

   Too caught up in my feelings—feelings that I've shoved down for too long—I stayed in my spot for what felt like minutes before I managed to calm myself down. I focused on relaxing my expression before heading out of my room, phone in hand. I didn't spare mom a glance as I slipped into my flip flops before leaving the house.