Wicked Boy (43) (Patreon)

(TW: alcoholism, abuse references, depression, eating irregularities due to depression.

If there are any mistakes, I apologize, I’m really sick! Please be sensitive to the fact that while Milan’s character development/arc may be frustrating, trauma does not disappear overnight.  If a scene looks familiar, it’s because it’s been rewritten and it suits this story’s direction/characters better.

Milan will heal, but this is his journey.)

—

They say life is just a chain of events.

They say — life is what you make it.

The two go hand in hand.

I try not to let my emotions sway me or the deep, monotonous feeling that comes with the approaching wind and sluggish rain of Pennbrook.

What do I want from my life?

My curiosity tugs, and I ignore it, choosing different supermarket items and shoving them into my basket.  I'm going to eat.  I tell myself.  The neon lights leading to the alcohol store remind me of Huxley, of Ezra with the red reflecting off his skin — and his venomous irises.

I stare at a magic eight ball beside all the strategically placed candy at the check-out stand, and a childish curiosity strikes me — one that believes in magic, hope, and...

With the liquor store behind me, it's all too confusing, all too adjacent to the other.

Would I be happy in Huxley?

I shake the ball from within its package, against practicality, the cashier's stare, and my better judgment.

Concentrate and ask again.

I inhale.

Will he hurt me?

I sigh softly to myself, lips turning downward, and give it another shake.  My mind gets lost between venom and Lucas. The young cashier smiles at me, that sort of smile you provide when you know someone else is feeling low just by looking.  I bashfully smile back before peeking down at the Magic Eight ball's answer.

Better not tell you now.

My lungs feel as heavy as they always do.

I realize, in the random groceries I've put up to be scanned, that I've bought two boxes of popcorn and Iron Magnolias.

—

Half the office is sick and coughing, thanks to the weather.  Spring isn't cheerful in Pennbrook.  It's allergies or wet, city grime.  The sounds of my coworker's colds echo through the rounded break area, taken away by the low stereo chime of a classical station in deep-set mahogany.

My two weeks notice is tucked inside of one of the many folders in my briefcase.  I chew the inside of my cheek.  I think of emailing it instead or sticking it under the crack of my father's office door.

Candace Cluff chews her donut loudly from beside me, the gulp of her coffee making me clench my fists. They're having trouble with the slides for the presentation this Friday, as they do every time the elderly and ailing Dakota Bennet is in charge.

My father stands near the front, and I watch him with an even gaze — one that he returns over his shoulder ever so often.

My father is likely going to fire Mr. Bennet.

He's a weak link.

That's what his eyes say.

I don't usually attend the Friday meetings, but my father likes to bring me lately for the statistics side of everything.

This is occasionally, depending on who is there like I'm a decorative handbag in his hand.   I hate that he seems arrogant — cockier lately, with me following in his footsteps, regardless if it's at a snail's pace.  I belong to him now.  I'm under him now.

My livelihood depends on his approval, once again.

I hate that when I'm around him, I still feel like two weights have been settled around my ankles, and I've been thrown to the bottom of McLaughlin's lake.

I realize that I'm here, sharing coffee with a man who ruined me. So I find myself in the bathroom, squeamish, when Mr. Bennet leaves my father's office in tears, with Ez's contact staring back at me.

Outgoing Message (Ezra):

I'm going to quit.

My eyes water.  I don't press send. My two weeks notice is printed on one sheet of paper. Still, it feels heavy.

—

Ezra doesn't contact me.  He doesn't call, or text, or send weirdly ominous parcels to my door.  Part of my brain needles me and says, maybe, he doesn't want to.  Maybe, Ezra and Lucas met up at a later time — and decided that I'm pitiful.

He offered up his home to me.

He doesn't keep in touch.

A large part of me feels embarrassed.

Returning to my routine in Pennbrook wasn't easy.

Of course, it wasn't.

And — I've become the center of a much softer sort of gossip than I'm accustomed to. There's the rumor, spread by Isaac, that I'm meeting a man that doesn't look like he belongs in Pennbrook, and how that reflects upon my family, this company, and my father.

The people that work for United Minett Financial don't know anything, but suddenly they're saying how I've always looked a little tired or a little sad. My mother is prickling anxiously at the idea of this sort of attention on our family.

The youngest Minett is going off the deep end.

After her fair share of the alcohol cabinet, my mother calls one night, just to interrogate me. I ignore her call but listened to her voicemail six times.  She says to eat. Not for me, but because her friends are calling me thin.  And it's embarrassing.

I like to pause the voicemail after the first part and pretend that she loves me.  I was eating. I almost want to stop because I want her life to be as uncomfortable as mine.  But. I eat anyway. I'm no longer in a hole.

At one point.  I made myself feel like I was pulling myself out.

But then...

"Do you still attend Sunday mass?"

I attend church on Sunday.  And every week after and before that. My father often reprimands me before mass.  So I drown myself in liquor prior to meeting him, because of Lucas' taunt — because I'm pathetic. Five steps forward. A hundred back.

I've opened a message to Ezra hundreds of times.  My finger has hovered over the call button almost the same amount.  I haven't renewed my lease.  I'm still here. I have an escape route and — I'm scared.

So. I'm still here.

Sunday sermons prove to be difficult when I pay attention to the words — and the people in the front row, in particular. My father frowns at me, a reminder of his anger on the drive — and my skin prickles with frustration.

My lease is ending.  That should be freeing.

How great would it feel to quit?

Why haven't I done it?

Does my father deserve a notice?

Business. Family name. Disappointed. Humiliated. Owe. Owe. Owe. You owe me.

Those are words my father used most. I counted them instead of responding. I think — of what he'll say to me if I hand him that paper.

—

The sermon today is on metamorphosis — the transformation of the body.   It ends as slowly as it began, and my body feels queasy.  My tolerance for alcohol must be lower than it used to be.

"May we, this parish,"  Father Aldo has his arms open wide to all those who embody that word, to all those in the pews beneath him. They all open their arms back to him,  "May we strip down to our most basic form and reform into the image of God.  May we all be His butterflies.  May God's blessings be with you."

Chrysalis, particularly.

My arms are crossed.

It sounds beautiful as a concept. A lowly and hungry caterpillar working tirelessly to cocoon itself, and that work being returned when it emerges as a graceful butterfly.

"E con il tuo Spirito!"  My mother cheers, and beside her, many repeat the tired phrase.  My father smiles in reluctant approval — to my side, Elizabeth Esposito grins around her coffee.  I feel my arms crossing over themselves tighter, hugging my midsection.

I feel sick.

The metaphor for change is solid and appealing.

Who doesn't want to be a butterfly?

Fluttering prettily, sitting atop flowers and drinking their nectar. What a life that would be, compared to this mundane ugliness. How charming it is in comparison.

In reality, the caterpillar releases enzymes — and digests itself. It breaks down to a nutrient liquid inside its cocoon, and then hidden cells awaken and transform it into a butterfly. Nothing is left but the nervous system, the breathing tubes, and the hidden disc cells.

It's a horrific and gruesome process —  fascinating, but less pretty when worded accordingly.

People have that power of words. They can make something beautiful — or make it ugly, and believe whatever they've said without contradiction.

"This is morbid," I whisper. I say it aloud so that I will have to face the consequences.  "I'm going."

I either want to leave or to be punished. My mother sits in the pews in a way that prevents me.  I think — maybe, it's both.

I don't know where I want to go, but I want to leave Pennbrook and the presence of my parents like it's some sort of entity, and I'm trapped in its stifling wrongness. It's been boiling in my stomach for weeks now. That two weeks notice gets heavier. My plain walls feel worse without the warmth of alcohol, and bitter with it.

My mother looks a little surprised that I've spoken — or maybe it's my tone; glances nervously behind her to make sure Janice Bianco hasn't heard my quip.

I think, on top of all things and all worry, that's what she cares about. Appearance. Propriety has its hold on her as much as it does my father.

"Milan," she whispers,  "please. Not here. Not smelling of vodka."

She smiles falsely back at Janice.

I feel hot in my Sunday best, pulling my dress shirt away from my chest,

"The sermon." I try again. My jaw hurts. "It's painful."

"...Butterflies don't feel pain." She murmurs stubbornly.  "Be more like one."

I just as stubbornly frown, mood unbalanced and aching for an outlet, and when my father peers back at me, his brows gathering in distaste, I snap.

"Humans do."

It feels like an accusation.  Maybe — it's is.

"It's a metaphor,"  my father sighs, disproportionately loud, like I'm a toddler.  He shoulders my mother closer to me, like some fucked up group huddle,  "Give it a rest — lower your voice."

"It's not a transformation."  I push, and stand with my family as the priest asks us to sing a hymn,

"Yes, it is."

"No. The caterpillar is dead.  All that's left is the butterfly."

"That's not true, Milan." My mother frowns, long and deep. Her eyes are on mine, brows pulling together. "Massimo, do something about your son before he starts another rumor."

My father sighs, reaching behind her to hold my shoulder.  His grip hurts like it did when I was young.

"Milan. There's power in words — but in belief too. I believe it pulled itself back together from death."  His voice is firm.  He tugs my arm until it isn't crossed over the other anymore.  I sway; the ground is unsure beneath me. "It became something beautiful. Before, it was nothing."

"Nothing." I frown, and my eyes are watering. I don't know why, and I'm sure it's far from good karma to be glaring at a room full of hymn-singing Catholics. 

"The caterpillar was nothing. It destroyed itself." I say, and Janice Bianco is listening. "And then it became something else."

My father's nails dig into my skin,

"It was a disgusting, slithering creature." He hisses, under his breath, "and it became something worth looking at."

--

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