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"Don't swear, Sutton."
“Don't speak out of turn, Sutton.”
“Stop crying, Sutton."
"Your opinions don't matter in this situation, Sutton."
News flash. It didn't matter if the situation concerned me or not. My opinions matter.
Walking into my dark, lonely house, I drop my bag on the kitchen counter. Such a lovely house my parents have. It would be even nicer if they spent time in it.
I look around at the cold and bleak kitchen, trying to recall the last time my entire family gathered here.
It must have been when Elliott got drafted. That was five years ago, and it's one of the rare moments in the past fifteen years that my parents exhibited interest in what their children were doing.
The NHL is a big deal, and I'm sure they couldn't wait to brag about it to their co-workers.
The more I sit here and remember how sucky my parents are, the angrier I get. I'm the only one who still believes they have some good left inside them, and yet they neglect me.
I'm on the verge of tears one minute and hear a shattering sound the next. It takes me a second to realize what happened, and I'm shocked when I do.
I just threw the vase that was sitting on the island at the cabinets. I stand still, trying to process, not wanting to freak myself out, and accidentally step on a shard of glass.
I have so much anger coursing through my veins right now, and all I can think is I'm done.
I'm done with my parents, and I'm done with being the shy girl who never gets what she wants.
I think about Lincoln and how he said I was a "good friend." I want more than that from our relationship, and I'm going to get more. I deserve it.
I deserve to be happy, really, truly happy.
Now that was a stellar pep talk!
After taking a few deep breaths, I carefully make my way to the closet, cautious not to step on any shards of glass.
I grasp the broom and dustpan, preparing to tackle the aftermath of my outburst. Oddly, I'm not even upset about having to clean up after such a long and trying day; in fact, it's brought about a much-needed breakthrough. My fit of rage had been building for quite some time.
Thankfully, no witnesses were around to observe my emotional outburst. After diligently sweeping up the scattered fragments and depositing them in the garbage, a heavy wave of fatigue crashes over me. My bones feel as if they're made of lead as I drag myself up the stairs to my bedroom.
I push the door ajar and stand in the doorway, taking in the sight of my childhood room. The decor is a sea of neutrals and far more mature than what one would expect in a child's room, but my mother had been insistent.
As I shuffle further into the room, I begin to peel off my clothes, eventually retrieving a set of pajamas from my dresser. By this point, I'm dragging my feet to the bathroom to wash my face and brush my teeth. The exhaustion is so profound that I feel like I might fall asleep while standing.
Finally ensconced in my bed, I attempt to shut my eyes and embrace sleep, but it remains frustratingly elusive. I toss and turn repeatedly, recognizing that while my body is drained, my mind refuses to power down.
I let out a groan, sitting up and propping my pillow against the headboard. With the remote in hand, I switch on the TV, selecting a random movie in a futile attempt to distract myself.
Unintentionally, I start to sniffle. The amalgamation of fatigue, anger, and sorrow washes over me, and before I know it, I'm engulfed in uncontrollable sobs. Tears stream down my cheeks, cascade down my neck, and collect in pools on my chest. I've become a human manifestation of a broken dam.
I don't know how long my tears flow, but eventually, I cry to the point where my tear ducts have run dry, and my breathing has returned to a more steady rhythm. I nestle back into my bed, feeling as though a heavy weight has been lifted from my chest. The intense rage from shattering the vase, followed by the emotional release, has left me feeling like a renewed person.
I adjust my pillows in an attempt to get more comfortable, though I find it challenging to focus on the movie. My mind is preoccupied with the sense of relief that has washed over me. Just as I'm starting to settle into this newfound calm, my phone rings, startling me.
It's Lincoln, as I expected. Part of me considers not answering, but I can't bear the thought of him worrying about me. With an effort, I swipe to answer and put on my brightest voice. "Hey!" I greet him, thankful that he can't see my puffy, tear-stained face.
"Hey, sweetheart," Lincoln replies, his voice radiating warmth and happiness.
He undoubtedly had a more typical night than I did. He has a loving family and his best friend, making him one lucky guy. "Hey," I say again, trying to match his cheerful tone.
