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He pauses meaningfully, and I chew so hard on my inner cheek I taste blood.
“I don’t want to have to resort to long-term care for you, Skyler,” he says, almost gently. More gently than I’ve ever heard him speak. “You’re better than that. Those places aren’t for people like you. But if you don’t grow up and get yourself under control, we’ll have no choice. It’ll be that or prison or a grave at this point, and while you might not have any preferences, we do. Understood?”
Chin trembling, I nod.
“We’ve done all we can for you, Skyler. More than most parents would. Don’t waste that privilege on account of adolescent stubbornness. It’s time to grow up and be the man I know you’re capable of being.”
Another pause, then, “I’ve seen it. I know you’re stronger than this. So does your mother, and that’s why we get so frustrated sometimes.”
His steps draw near, his shiny black dress shoes glinting under the overhead light.
A hand comes out to touch me, and I tense, bunching into a human ball before I can stop myself.
He sighs, muttering something under his breath.
Squeezing my eyes shut, I murmur, “S-sorry.”
“We’re just trying to help you,” he says for what feels like the millionth time. It sounds so… empty. Hollow.
It does nothing to unfurl the tension constricting my body.
“But we can’t help someone who doesn’t want to be helped,” he says with an air of finality.
He doesn’t push himself through my visible discomfort to touch me. Instead, he turns, walking away, his squeaky, steady steps growing faint, before disappearing completely.
I should be grateful he respected my space. But like usual, I just feel sad. Frustrated.
Lonely.
Why can’t I just be normal?
“Skyler?”
Blinking, I lift my head, willing the tension from my shoulders. I forgot there was someone else in the room.
I force myself to meet the social worker’s gaze, letting my vision grow unfocused so it doesn’t feel so intense as I tell her, “I’m sorry about them. They don’t mean to be rude. They just are.”
She coughs, but tries to cover it up with a hand to her mouth and a gentle clearing of her throat.
I drop my chin on my knee, stretching out my other leg, and go back to picking at the loose thread on my sweats, not caring about the tear forming as I pull and unravel it, winding it around my finger.
She draws closer, and I can sense her watching me intently. As if she’s waiting for something.
Was she here when I freaked out and they had to sedate me?
Is she scared of me?
People often are, which is funny, because I’m not exactly scary looking. I wouldn’t say I’m skinny, but I’m far from big and muscular. And frankly, the idea of hurting someone churns my gut.
It always has.
At least…Iassumeit’s fear that drives people to give me a wide berth. Or I suppose it could be that I just make people uncomfortable. Not always, but it seems to be a running theme in my life.
Watch out for that Skyler. He’s a loose cannon. Steer clear or who knows what he might do to you.
People who’ve learned first-hand what I’m capable of, should I grow uncomfortable, just assume touch in general repulses me.
It doesn’t. Quite the opposite actually.
