Page 26 of Make You Beg

“What do you want?” I hiss, well aware she can’t hear me. “What does it matter whether I eat or not?”

She’s bothering me.

The same way she’s done ever since she walked into my life. Sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.

Her infuriatingly gorgeous face, is always in my way, too. Wherever I go, she’s there.

It’s like she’s begging for me to notice her, to mess with her. Why can’t she leave me the fuck alone like everyone else always does?

I groan, slamming a palm onto the shingles underneath me.

I’m not some basket case asking to be saved. I don’t need her pity.

Wasn’t last time out here enough? I guess not. She’s a stubborn one.

She’s still trailing my every step, following me like a stray puppy.

She calls my name again, and instead of getting up and going back into the bedroom, I opt for stretching my arms and putting them behind my head, making a pillow with them.

Lying down on the roof, staring at the sky, the grainy clouds almost fading, ready to let the stars show up and steal their show with their shiny little presence.

Unpopular opinion here—stars are overrated.

They’re not beautiful, nor enchanting, nor hypnotizing as everyone else claims them to be.

No. They’re just in the way.

They’re in the way of my getting to see my favorite part of the sky.

The darkness that follows when night falls.

Now, that’s the real beauty. In the dark, you can hide. In the dark, you can be yourself, without judgment or fear. No one to tell you what you did right or wrong. No one to scold you or lay a hand on you. In the dark, you can do anything.

But stars? Those shiny little dots to guide us when we’re lost?

I’d say they’re there to stick their nose in our business, nosy little things, the same as my little sister.

I fucking hate stars.

I divert my gaze away from the sky and sit up. Hissing under my breath as I look down, observing our neighbors going on about their lives instead. They’re so tiny they could be confused for ants.

Madelyn must have given up and gone. I can’t hear her anymore.

Great.

I hold the cigarette between my teeth and lie on my stomach now, stretching along the rooftop, reaching the edge with my face, letting my arm dangle and testing my endurance.

Not a single hair on the back of my neck stands. I’m not afraid of falling. I’m not scared of dying. Quite the opposite, I like to tempt destiny.

Try me, bitch. If it’s my turn, I won’t stand a chance against it anyway.

I’ve watched enough movies of people fighting against death to know that if it wants you, it gets you.

Instead, all I do every day is try to look for reasons to stay. To be strong, to keep showing up despite all the anger I have piled up inside me. Hidden by years of arguments, pacing around, and looking for answers. Wondering what the heck I’m doing with my life. Trying to be the perfect son and doing a shitty job, according to my father.

Here, in the early night air, with the swift breeze playing with my hair, and the stars judging my every move, I feel safe. Warmth and comfort. Even as I dangle my arm into the void, the risk of falling is nothing compared to suffocating in this house with people I’ll never be able to please.

I find one of my neighbors, point at them down on their porch, and bring my index finger and thumb together, squinting my eyes and pretending to squeeze him. As if he were a bug. Or my father.