Tobacco

short story

I didn’t mean to stay as long as I did.

I am in their crawl space currently; I am safe there. Nurtured there. The family is teaching me what a real family is; they are healing me through proxy. Every time they tell a bedtime story to their kids, I am listening; it's like they are reading a bedtime story to me. Whenever they sing lullabies to the baby, they are cooing me to sleep. I move silently between rooms; I follow their footsteps so I can hear conversations. When they are gone, I reveal myself; I wander around the house and take note of the surroundings. My favorite thing about the house is the couch; it is so different from my childhood couch. My childhood couch smelled of marijuana and burned plastic. It’d give me hives whenever I sat on it. But their couch is so much different; it's grey and so plush. When they are gone, I indulge in the luxury that is their couch.

It all started when it was a stormy night; I was looking for shelter, and their garage was agape. I snuck inside, wanting to stay there for the night. But the inside of their house was calling to me. A voice was telling me to go in, that this was my new home. The voice sounded like my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Beckam. Mrs. Beckam loved me; she tried to intervene when she could. She would send me home with snacks and toiletries. She used to tell me to never give up. When it was my last day of first grade, I cried into her skirt, begging her to adopt me, and that I wanted her to be my new mommy. But then, the next day, I walked across the gym floor, and I became a student to her. Her voice was begging me to enter the home, that this would be my new sanctuary.

Her voice was right; this is my new sanctuary. After I saw how kind and loving this family was, I knew she led me to the right place. That this family would heal me and teach me what a real family was supposed to look like. My parents were addicted to drugs, and they introduced me to the lifestyle when I was twelve. Ever since then, I’ve been addicted. I blow all my money on it; it's the only thing that brings me comfort. Feels like a warm hug, feels like an ‘I love you’ from mom. My mom never told me she loved me.

I came from a broken home; my parents didn’t love eachother and they didn’t love me. The screaming, the name-calling, the beating- it all made me the person who I am today. I just want someone to hold me and tell me it wasn’t my fault. I want someone who will tuck me in at night, someone who will cut my food up real small for me so I won’t choke. This family is indirectly doing that; every time I see them interact with their kids, it’s showing me how I should’ve been treated. That it wasn’t my fault for how my parents treated me. That on the inside, I am still that scared little boy, wanting my mom and dad to tell him the monsters in his closet aren’t going to get him.

I was diagnosed with schizophrenia when I was sixteen. My parents didn’t bother getting me on medication; whenever I would have meltdowns, they would egg it on. My first real episode was when everyone turned into rotting corpses. Whenever I looked at my mom, I just saw a rotting zombie. I would cry and scream; they would just laugh at me. I can barely discern what is real and what is fake; all I could know was that this could be a hallucination. If that is the case, this is the kindest hallucination that I have ever had.

The first time that the parents of this home argued, I cried. I curled up in a fetal position and sobbed. Unlike my parents, they argued in hushed voices; they didn’t scream and break apart furniture. This time I didn’t have to hide in my room and lock the door. But it was still triggering nonetheless. I can’t stand arguing; it upsets me. It sends me into a dark place that I don’t like. I had a nightmare after they argued that I was back in my childhood home. That my parents locked me in my room, and I was forced to wet myself and sit in it. But I awoke and realized that I wasn’t there, that I was warm and safe with my new family.

I am really careful about taking their food; they have a teenager in the house, and teenagers eat a lot. So whenever things go missing, they blame it on her. They don’t get angry at her, though; they don’t even say anything to her. They are just thankful that she’s eating. My parents kept locks on the pantry and fridge, and I would have to beg for them to unlock it. We barely had any food anyway; my parents were too busy spending money on crack.

Recently, there has been an evil voice that pops up occasionally. Telling me that this new family will never love me and doesn’t care about me. It is beyond upsetting to me and makes me want to drive a screwdriver through my eye. I stole a screwdriver from the family, and I hold it up to my eye, just to protect myself from the voice. I am threatening it, telling it that if it doesn’t shut up, I will make sure it’ll never speak again. It makes it be quiet for a bit, until it starts speaking again. But Mrs. Beckam’s voice argues with it, telling me that when I reveal myself, the family will love me. I want to believe Mrs. Beckam so badly, but this new voice is eating away at me.

I want to reveal myself to this family so bad; it's itching away at me. I want them to see me and accept me. To take me in as one of their own, so I can be a part of a proper family. They will take me in as their child; I know I am twenty-five, but internally I am still so young. Still begging for a mommy and daddy to hold me at night, to tuck me into bed and kiss me on my forehead. I just want to be a baby again; I want to latch onto a breast and suck on it. I was to desperatly be coddled; I want someone to swaddle me.

I hope this new family accepts me; I think next Friday I will reveal myself. When father goes to work, and mom goes as well. I will clean myself up and make myself look presentable. I will be waiting on their couch, with open arms. Ready for them to scoop me up and tell me I am their son.

A/N: Hi guys! This is a shorter one. But I got inspiration from serving this happy family at work. All my articles are named after songs; this one is named after a Girl Pusher song.