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A Chapter by njholliger

Start of a book I may write. Let me know if i should continue

Building a wall does nothing more than show that you have something to hide; something to protect. My father whispered this in his deep, raspy, voice long ago, soon after the recovery of one of his “bad spells” as we like to call them. We, being my mother and me. See, my father is a complex man but he chooses not to show it. It is quite ironic that he told me this. He seems to always be the one building a wall. I could go on forever about my father, about his “bad spells,” or even about my parents’ marriage but life is not as simple as just saying the facts. To every problem; to every scar; to every habit, good or bad, there is a story.

“Marcus, come down here.” my mother yells to me.

Marcus, derived from the Roman god Mars, god of war. I was given this name on May 24^th, 1961. Just over 17 years from that day and not once have I ever questioned why I was given the name. It always seems strangely appropriate.

“Coming, Heather” I shout back as I lay back into my bed trying to gather myself. I never call my parents mom or dad. Calling my parents mom or dad just reminds me of how likely I am to turn out like them. The truth is I already am just like them, just in denial of it.

“Act normal. Just act normal,” I tell myself under my own breath as I walk downstairs. As I reach the bottom of the stairs my mom and I make eye contact. My mom is young for a parent; gave birth to me when she was just nineteen. Most my friends try to hit on her when they come over, which is awkward for me at times. At a less than modest height of five feet and nine inches tall with a small waist and dirty blonde hair she truly was a beautiful lady by most standards. She presents me a plate with burnt scrambled eggs and a piece of microwave bacon. I immediately head to the table and begin eating without saying a word.

My mother comes and joins me and it takes just a second of observing me for her to declare, “You are stoned aren’t you? You got high before a f*****g school day, Marcus.”

I look up from my plate to meet eyes with her. “It’s not a big deal Heather, just calm down,” I reply defensively.

“Not a big deal?” she says in an aggravated voice “How often do you go to school like this?”

“Only when I need to. I had a feeling today would be a day that requires a little something to help me through it. So far I’m not too far off.”

“Where did you even get it from? Last I checked you were out of cash,” Heather asks with suspicion in her voice.

“I found your stash. You have got some quality weed Heather. I’m very impressed.”

“Little prick, you owe me,” she says, with a smirk, proud of the recognition I gave her on having good weed. ”Oh, and do not make a habit out of doing this before school.”

Experimenting with drugs has never been a big deal to my parents. Mainly because they would not last a day or two without getting some sort of buzz. They try not to be hypocrites about my drug use but would never partake in the experience with me. As a young child I would often wonder what my parents were doing and why they always seemed so distant afterwards, with the blank expressions on their faces. Their method of becoming distant would always change, which confused me. I know now that they were just doing different drugs, whether that is meth, heroin, crack, or any other drug they could find on the streets. Though I was not raised in a broken home the drugs always made me feel like I was. At any given time at least one of my parents was high and off in a drug induced world. While drugs contribute to my ruined childhood but, as I reach adulthood I can see why my parents depend on them. They make me feel complete; they calm me down so I can forget the past; they enable me to live in the now.