20 | Running Out Of Fuel

MIÉRCOLES

6:56PM

Dahlia Gray

Here's a secret: I think I'm going to fail.

I never had to balance between work, home, and school before. I'm more privileged than most—I'm half-white, my father makes a sufficient wage above the minimum pay and we live in the suburbs that classifies us as upper-middle class. We have money, we have access, and we have a family.

I think that calls for more than most.

That doesn't mean I live my entire life without obstacles however—I battle issues that stem from internal thoughts. I don't have the picture-perfect family, and my mother relies on me as her outlet for the rest of the world. I live in a constant state of limbo—between childhood and adulthood.

And I never got the chance to live either.

The lamp of my room lit with a bright LED, basking the entire room with artificial lighting. I learned how to replace the circuit board and screw the outlet back into place. After hours of studying a few YouTube videos, and my mother's help in going to the local hardware store, I managed to do it all on my own.

It wasn't much, but to me, it was a big F-you to the male population living downstairs.

I'm doing an assignment for SAINT Laboratories; working up a report on the statistics of STEM fields and their benefits that could be applied to the company. This ranges on what I could supply to them, and counts as one of the curriculum to be met if I want to stay.

I tried asking Aysa for help but she replied back with a just be yourself and good luck. I gathered that she wasn't much of a texter.

Hannah and Josie contacted me and told me that the dinner is a go—for tomorrow. They tried to schedule it for another Friday, but I told them I had work and they bombarded me with questions on where, what, when and why.

To say I don't keep them in the loop is an understatement.

I mean, I tried, believe me—but our dynamic isn't safe. I feel like I have to hold my tongue on every word I ooze and I have to keep my sentences concise or I'll breach a territory I can't go back from. I don't talk deep with them, I don't tell them my issues, and in the end, all I happen to do is remain silent.

I debated on just saying no and ended it there.

I return back to my MacBook, staring at the white screen with a couple of typed words and a hundred of deleted spaces. The prompts stare back at me with intimidation, taunting me with each passing second. My head wasn't right, and nothing was coherent enough to paste onto paper.

My dark hair returns, tipping over my shoulders and falling in front of my eyes—covering my vision once more. I push it back, with an irritated grunt, but remind myself to fix my posture. I subconsciously bend—looking like the Henchman of Notre Dame—and it tends to be the root of some of my problems.

"Dahlia!" I hear my name exiting from my father's voice, causing me to jump. I twist around in my spinny chair, meeting his figure standing a foot from my bedroom door. I swear I locked it before.

He comes in, uninvited, carrying a yellow package in one hand and a red velvet cupcake in the other. His brown eyes brim with gentleness, and it causes me to feel a stag of guilt in my stomach. My thoughts that contained him suddenly felt invalid, and somehow, the lamp situation pucks at the opportunity to say it was my fault.

"Hi," I say shortly, tucking another loose strand of hair behind my ear. I try not to wear annoyance on my face, and instead, carry all of my emotions down to my hands. I pull them into fists, releasing, and repeating the process once more.

"How are you, sweetheart?" He coos, taking a step closer. I felt the need to close the laptop behind me—not wanting him to know about my paid internship. There's something malice about it to him—for someone else to have a source of income.

"I'm good," I inwardly cringe, not wanting to be this close to my father. I don't want to talk to him; somehow, having him near me makes me invalidate all of my emotions and I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing. I need to feel my anger, my resentment, and I need to feel like what I've done and said isn't entirely wrong.

He doesn't accept the social cues and instead places the red velvet cupcake on the top of my closed MacBook, tempting me with sweets. He doesn't say anything else, looking down at his package as his fingers loom over the mead clasp, ready to pull out the documents. My stomach churns.

"So, sweetheart," he begins lovingly, pulling out a stack of documents, "I was given a couple of papers for my retirement forms and tax returns, and I was wondering if you could do them for me? Like you do for your mother?"

My brows pull together, and I stare down at the stacks. This was more than a couple of paper forms, and it was probably worth twenty to forty pages. I bet there's a lot of terms and agreements, laced with precise wordings and indistinctive promises. I'm not good with government documents, and I certainly never played with filing out tax returns.

I shake my head, "I don't know how to do that. I help mom with medical documents, and registration forms. I don't do all of that governmental stuff—"

"But you can do it!" He encourages, shoving the package into my hands. "You've helped your mother this far in life. I'm sure you've picked up something along the way that could aid you in this."

I frown. I wanted to say the reason why I've helped my mother this far in life was because he refuses to go through the long doctor appointments with my mother; he denies following her to the waiting room and hates helping her with the paperwork that follows. He complains and whines in patience. Most of the time, what follows after is an argument and a loud slam of the door where he storms off to smoke.

In turn, my mother would rather ask for my help than deal with his impatience.

I suck in my cheeks, not saying anything. I look down at the documents in my hands, and remind myself that I have work. I have homework, and I have college applications I have to register for. I don't have time to work on a forty-page essay that my father could easily do.

"I can't do it," I say softly, feeling a tightness to my chest. "I have so much to do—"

"Dahlia," he drops down to a crouching position, pacing a hand on the armrest of my chair. He looks up to meet my gaze. "You're an intelligent girl, and you handle everything life has given you so far. You helped your mother, so why can't you help me when I need you to?"

I clench down my jaw, because I can't help but remember the times I needed him. When I call for his help, only to get dismissed or scolded like a child with no consciousness of discipline. I can't help but picture the lamp situation that happened weeks ago—and how he made me feel worthless.

Dahlia, he was just frustrated that day, I feel myself excusing.You're overreacting.

I don't say anything, dropping my gaze back to the package in my hands. It weighs down on me like an anchor, and it wasn't just physical. I turn back to him, with soft doe eyes, I ask quietly: "how come you can't do it?"

"Dahlia," he whines like a child, pouting. "Please?"

I inhale a sharp breath, but I feel my words falling flat from his ears. The word no not processing through his head. "Okay," I say simply, clutching on the edge of the package. "I'll do it."

He beams, jumping to his feet. He leans forward, planting a kiss on my forehead. "You're the best," he says, pulling apart. "I'm so lucky to have such a great daughter. You're so smart."

Without another word, he takes his leave. I can hear him descending down the steps, the low audio of his casino games registers in the air. I suspect he pulls out his phone, deciding to play a couple of rounds with his newly free-time.

I look back down to the package, the crisp white paper bolds against the yellow envelope. I grit my teeth, feeling my anxiety spike at the thought that I have so much work to do. I have homework, I have an assignment, and now, on top of all this bull, I have these stupid forms.

I drop the papers onto my desk, seeing the cupcake resting on my laptop. I stare at it, debating what to do. Last time, I just ate it. I didn't want to throw it away, remembering times in Venezuelan where I stood outside the bakery store, wishing for a bite. A taste.

I open the plastic box, taking the cupcake into my hands. I peel back the wrap and take a bite, the flavor exploring my taste buds. It tastes great, so incredibly sweet, but what soon follows is despair. The guilt. It screams at me—how can you enjoy something given by the hands that hurt you?

How can you hate someone while enjoying their offers?

What type of hypocrisy do you carry?

I couldn't find myself supplying a decent answer, and in the warmth of the shame, I finished the cupcake within seconds. It may have filled my stomach, but it hollows my heart.

I stare.

At nothing.

I didn't want to go back to doing my assignment—the desire to do so slipped into the negatives—and I don't even want to look at the package to my left. I felt voided, and while my body responded with shame and despair, I numbed it all out.

My phone dings, and I look to my right. I lean over my desk, reading the message.

Harlow: Saturday.

Harlow: Driving lessons.

I picked up my phone, and instead of replying to his text with a simple okay, I went to the telephone icon and clicked on his name. It begins to ring.

My heart resides in my throat and I clutch onto the phone like it was my lifeline. I didn't know what I was doing—I don't even think he was going to pick up—but my emotions were piled in my chest, filling up like loose changes to a bottle. It felt heavy, it weighed me down—and sometimes, I just want to scream.

The lines connect.

"You could've just send me a fucking text—"

"Do you ever just," I suck in a deep breath, "do you ever just want to scream?"

He doesn't respond. I continue. "I want to scream. I want to scream so loudly that my voice is raw and I can't speak for the next three days. I want the world to hear me. I want someone to hear," my heart racing, my breathing labored with pants. I stop for a second, sinking softer. "I just want to be acknowledged. Is that so hard?"

Harlow doesn't react. I thought he cut off the line or ended the call mid-speech, but when I checked, I saw the digits racking up in time. We're still on call. He hasn't left.

"Then scream," Harlow said after a long silence. "Fucking scream. Scream so loud the neighbors complain. Scream so fucking loud that no one can stop you. Let it all out."

"I can't," I counter.

"Why not?"

"Because no one listens," I say, feeling wetness to my cheeks. I didn't realize I was crying. "I need someone to listen to me. I want to be heard. It's not about being the loudest in the room. it's about being the one who's heard. I just...I just need someone to listen to me."

Harlow grows silent. And he doesn't talk. The more the time stretches, the more I realize how stupid this seems. To confide in someone who barely gives a damn about me. The only reason we're talking is because he's teaching me how to drive. Nothing else. Nothing more.

I thought about ending the call. I wipe my tears, and as I pull the phone out from my ear, a text appears at the top of the screen.

Harlow: I'll listen.

And so I talked.

I told him about the assignment for SAINT Laboratories I had to do and how it was imperative to my internship. I told him about how I didn't start on our homework for Calloway that's due this Friday, and I told him about the package my father gave me. It was breathless, and I barely took breaks in-between to catch my breath, but not once did he interrupt me.

I rant about my father—the sore thumb to my entire operation. I told him how he's perfectly capable of doing his own tax returns or filling out his own forms—but no, instead, he pushes it into his daughter.

I think I heard him grit his teeth on the other line.

I told him about the cupcake. How much I hate eating it, but I have to because it's a waste of money. It's a waste of good food that some people would die for.

I told him about the guilt. The shame. The despair that follows after taking one bite. That sweetness may have a nice taste to the tongue, but it never once managed to overcome the bitter.

I told him that I was weak.

He told me that he thought that was bullshit.

And that was the only time he interrupted.

We stayed on the phone till midnight, and my throat felt drier than the Sahara Desert. I confide in him about things that barely left the surface of my home, and despite the conversation never reaching the max point about my father, it felt nice.

I retire to my bed, telling him that I think it's time we end. He understood, offering a short bye, but before he ends the call—I told him a thank you.

It took him a second to gather his response, and when it came, he said: "Whenever you're ready. I'll be here."

Then, the line went dead.

I fall back onto my mattress, clutching the hot phone in my hand. I burned through a ton of battery, and the back of my palm probably had a thermal imprint shaped like the device, but it was worth it.

It wasn't a scream, and I barely had to go above my normal octave—but it still applies the same criteria.

My throat was still raw.

My heart still race in my chest.

I still talked.

Someone was listening.

I think, really, that's all I need.