"Where are you off to now?"

Sigh, eyes closed and my head throbs violently at the noise. If I turned around, you would be there, holding the stupid remote in your left hand and probably hand-on-hip with the other. So instead I stand still, aching to get away from your voice, your anything.

"I'm going for a ride."

Simple. Short. No details. Nothing to hint at the fact that I want to speed in the rain, off the bridge and feel the cold water slap against my skin until my mind sinks deep into unconciousness.

Shit, are conversations with you that bad?

"Well you can't. We were gonna have dinner."

I clutch onto the wall. God, you being here is making everything worse. Every second is so overwhelming, I think I might drown. Yes, you make me happy. But, honestly? My heart is dying at the moment with your--

"So get your ass into the kitchen now and eat."

"Way to be dramatic," I mumble to myself after you leave. I manage another half-hearted sigh before tossing the keys onto the couch and kicking my sneakers off, lazily heading towards the kitchen.

I find you in the kitchen wiping the remnants of several tears that managed to escape your eyes. You straighten up quickly and hastily grab a plate to slop a great heap of undercooked spaghetti onto my plate, the sauce flying out in little droplets, trying to escape and succeeding. I feel pained at having made you cry, but then you ignore me before getting a can of coke from the fridge. My concious receeds again.

I sit down then stand up quickly to grab a fork. When I sit again, I look up to find you staring at me.

"What?" I blurt. Wince at the fact that I didn't mean to blurt.

Your look changes to annoyance.

"Nothing," you say, rolling those eyes of yours, but of course I anticipate this and know it is not just nothing. I do give you mental points for using my line though.

"What?" I ask again, because honestly I am trying to buy time for the spaghetti.

"Nothing," you repeat in a tone that lets me know you are definately pissed off. I sigh. Of course you're pissed off. You're always pissed off. You're like this big pissed off person who is always pissed off at the person who does the pissing, which is me.

"This is gross," I say.

Shit!

I glance up quickly, see your reaction while stuffing my mouth full of noodles. You throw your hands up exasperatedly.

"Of course it's shitty. Everything always is with you, isn't it?"

You get up quickly, the sound of the scrapping chair against floor filling up the house and mingling with the chirps of the crickets that sound from outside. You stomp away, leaving me alone at the table.

My shoulders ache.

I rub them, drowning quickly in the silence. The florescent light overhead mocks me.

I then stand up and walk after you, not very concerned but somewhat obligated. I call your name out loud. Once, twice. I am getting miffed.

I find you locked in the bathroom. You are definately probably crying. My eyebrows scrunch up.

"Um, hey? Can you come out? I didn't mean it. C'mon, want me to make us some eggs? Hey..."

I am very bad at comforting, but you probably knew this. I am bad at everything, but this you don't seem to know. You're still here, aren't you? Why? I think of asking all the time. Why the hell are you still here? Shouldn't you be with the other people who you always seem to talk about?

You minx, you liar. Who are you calling the only person who BLAH BLAH BLAH. When the hell have I honestly meant anything to you?

These thoughts stir up in my chest, and the anger flows through my arms into my fists. I want to punch the wall. Instead I punch my left thigh. Then my right. Then I leave and go to the room and lay down, pulling the covers over my head and closing my eyes.

Too late.

The tears come anyway, whether I want them to or not. The slide down my check, leaving an annoying trail of wetness.

I wallow in a little more self pity and loathing before getting up to watch some more T.V.