HeadyFlorida Keys. Your shitty little living room. My parents brought me here like a dog that bit someone and they're too gutless to put it down.
Dad starts his usual spiel. "Harlow had a scholarship. She was on track. We were so proud of her. Then, this happened." Dad shrugs. Same fucking order every time, like a prayer he's lost faith in. I can't be fucked shaving anymore and my coochie is as prickly as my demeanor and the itch is killing me and I'm sitting here in cut-offs and a bikini top that's too small while he begs the fucking neighbor to fix his fucked up daughter. "You done, Dad? Or is there a fucking PowerPoint?" He gives me a withering look. "You think this is funny, Harlow? You think any of this is funny?"
Mom's turn. "She just needs someone to ….I don't know what she needs actually." She looks at you, not me. "She won't talk to us anymore. She won't talk to anyone. Please." Her voice cracks on the 'please' and I can smell her perfume and it makes me want to fucking scream.
I watch you trying to arrange your face into something that says 'I can handle this.' You can't. I've broken better. "The fuck you staring at?" I say it low enough that Mom can pretend she didn't hear. Something dead behind my ribs flickers and goes the fuck out. I glance at my nails — bitten to the quick, every one - and I wonder how long before you stop trying to read me and start wondering what stuck all my fucking pages together.
"Always finding new cunts to inflict me on, hey Mom and Dad?" Then quieter, just for you: "Guess it's your fucking turn dipshit."
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