on her sleeve, I kept mine safely tucked away. My love life was hitting the skids, and I was just about to turn twenty.
The silent treatment lasted about twelve days. I spent those quiet moments coming to class wearing ultra-provocative clothing, consuming tons of bananas in public, and using lip balm or gloss every chance I got. Nothing said do you miss me and my provocative mouth like moisturized lips. Frankly, it served them right. I should just blow them off… so to speak. When they finally broke their silence, I knew I was going to be busy for a long while.
I cornered Joey at a frat party one night and basically read him the riot act. I made sure everyone heard what a useless excuse he was for a man and how he lied about everything. I might have thrown in that he had a needle dick and his bedding skills were vastly overrated. He profusely apologized, and as unbelievable as it seemed, he tried to get in my pants that night. I made it clear to him that I wouldn’t fuck him with someone else’s dick. I was pissed. There were other men that had left an impact sex-wise, and he wasn’t one of them. I guess he never got the memo.
A couple months later, my life changed forever. I held the letter in my hand. Frozen in time. Emotionless. Empty. Pleading with myself to cry but being unable to shed one tear. The dean had notified Haven. She’d come home to find me sitting in a chair, unmoving, barely breathing. She pried the letter out of my hands and read. She broke down several times, clearly crying for both of us. It was as though I was able to share my anguish through her. She kneeled in front of me. I heard her whisper my name. But for the life of me, I was unable to respond.
I would not cry. Emotional outbursts were a sign of weakness. I’d always been strong. Besides, Haven had us both covered. We shared everything. I was so lucky to have her in my life.
I felt her grasp my shoulder. “I’m so very sorry, Weezie,” she said softly.
I was mute. Any response I had was stuck at the base of my throat. It was so tight I struggled for air. Was this a panic attack? Did I feel panicked? No. I felt decimated. The one thing I could count on always, gone. Expired. The letter was refined. It read both my parents were deceased when in reality they were dead . You could prettify the word, but it still meant dead, as in doornail. The attorney hadn’t wanted to call me. He thought a letter would be less devastating.
My hands were shaking as I read it. Their yacht had gone down. They’d recovered my parents’ bodies and three of the crew. My mind began to assemble thoughts of their last moments, drowning. Did they know? Did they think of me during their final minutes? Did it go quickly? Did they suffer? At least they had been together.
Inside, I was screaming. This was not happening. I was only twenty. They were supposed to be around for—what? I never planned to get married or have kids. They would have been witness to me becoming a success in business and a disaster in everything else. According to them, a life was only valued and fulfilling if you had a husband and family. I would have greatly failed them. Even though I was content with my life, I would have been a disappointment according to my parents.
Their objections regarding my life choices would have been noted. They would have constantly reminded me of my shortcomings when it came to my less than prolific life. I could never have been what they expected me to be. My mom had once told me I was a free spirit, and she’d been right. I’m positive they wanted more for me than one-night stands and bragging rights in fellatio. Of course, they didn’t know about my nocturnal activities or my future goals. I always told them what I presumed they wanted to hear. They died thinking I was the consummate daughter. The one who would end up marrying the perfect man and give them grandchildren to dote on in their old age.
“Please say something, Weezie. I’m so worried
The silent treatment lasted about twelve days. I spent those quiet moments coming to class wearing ultra-provocative clothing, consuming tons of bananas in public, and using lip balm or gloss every chance I got. Nothing said do you miss me and my provocative mouth like moisturized lips. Frankly, it served them right. I should just blow them off… so to speak. When they finally broke their silence, I knew I was going to be busy for a long while.
I cornered Joey at a frat party one night and basically read him the riot act. I made sure everyone heard what a useless excuse he was for a man and how he lied about everything. I might have thrown in that he had a needle dick and his bedding skills were vastly overrated. He profusely apologized, and as unbelievable as it seemed, he tried to get in my pants that night. I made it clear to him that I wouldn’t fuck him with someone else’s dick. I was pissed. There were other men that had left an impact sex-wise, and he wasn’t one of them. I guess he never got the memo.
A couple months later, my life changed forever. I held the letter in my hand. Frozen in time. Emotionless. Empty. Pleading with myself to cry but being unable to shed one tear. The dean had notified Haven. She’d come home to find me sitting in a chair, unmoving, barely breathing. She pried the letter out of my hands and read. She broke down several times, clearly crying for both of us. It was as though I was able to share my anguish through her. She kneeled in front of me. I heard her whisper my name. But for the life of me, I was unable to respond.
I would not cry. Emotional outbursts were a sign of weakness. I’d always been strong. Besides, Haven had us both covered. We shared everything. I was so lucky to have her in my life.
I felt her grasp my shoulder. “I’m so very sorry, Weezie,” she said softly.
I was mute. Any response I had was stuck at the base of my throat. It was so tight I struggled for air. Was this a panic attack? Did I feel panicked? No. I felt decimated. The one thing I could count on always, gone. Expired. The letter was refined. It read both my parents were deceased when in reality they were dead . You could prettify the word, but it still meant dead, as in doornail. The attorney hadn’t wanted to call me. He thought a letter would be less devastating.
My hands were shaking as I read it. Their yacht had gone down. They’d recovered my parents’ bodies and three of the crew. My mind began to assemble thoughts of their last moments, drowning. Did they know? Did they think of me during their final minutes? Did it go quickly? Did they suffer? At least they had been together.
Inside, I was screaming. This was not happening. I was only twenty. They were supposed to be around for—what? I never planned to get married or have kids. They would have been witness to me becoming a success in business and a disaster in everything else. According to them, a life was only valued and fulfilling if you had a husband and family. I would have greatly failed them. Even though I was content with my life, I would have been a disappointment according to my parents.
Their objections regarding my life choices would have been noted. They would have constantly reminded me of my shortcomings when it came to my less than prolific life. I could never have been what they expected me to be. My mom had once told me I was a free spirit, and she’d been right. I’m positive they wanted more for me than one-night stands and bragging rights in fellatio. Of course, they didn’t know about my nocturnal activities or my future goals. I always told them what I presumed they wanted to hear. They died thinking I was the consummate daughter. The one who would end up marrying the perfect man and give them grandchildren to dote on in their old age.
“Please say something, Weezie. I’m so worried
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