Work Text:
‘Maybe this’ll be the year.’
That’s what I told myself. That’s what Mom told me. Maybe this year you’ll be happy. Good stuff will happen, all that. Yeah. Sure.
Or maybe this’ll be the year when everything goes to shit. When you decide you’ll open up more and not hide the fact that you tried to commit suicide and ended up with a broken arm that became your legacy. “Evan? Hansen? Yeah, the kid with the broken arm? Sure, I know that kid!” The year when you write one fucking letter that someone else sees and ends up killing himself and then, you, for no legitimate reason except that you want some damn attention, make a big stink out of his life. A life you had no business in being a part of.
So yeah, maybe this’ll be the year when you ruin everyone’s lives.
I clench my jaw, trying not to cry as I sit, huddled, in the bathroom of my workplace. Fucking Pottery Barn. Pathetic . At least this year, I thought, I’d have a second chance. ‘Reinvention’ and all that crap I spewed last year. Well, that was a fleeting dream. Instead of happiness, instead of being a son a mother could be proud of, I’m working at a store of overpriced furniture and décor and eating SunButter and jelly sandwiches in the bathroom that reeks of some floral Febreze.
I think about Cynthia, Larry, and Zoe a lot. The guilt I feel for wrecking their lives. God, that’s vain, saying that I wrecked their lives. Christ. Surprisingly, I think about Cynthia the most. Not in a weird pervy way, Jesus, no, ugh, no, but I guess because my own mom has expressed her emotions towards me, her worry, her love, and how much pain she probably would’ve felt if my attempt was a success.
With Cynthia, Connor’s attempt
was
a success. Now, I can’t blindly assume all mothers are caring and stuff like my own mom, but spending almost a year with the Murphy’s, I saw a lot of connections between Cynthia and my mother.
And how painful it must have been for Cynthia.
Of course, I saw her break down in the principal’s office, I was there when she would talk sadly about Connor, but what about at night? When I was back at home and she might lock herself in her room, or Connor’s, and cry about the son she lost?
I assume Mom would’ve been the same.
What was the beginning of senior year like for Cynthia, as she watched Connor get ready for school? Did she have to force him out of bed? He didn’t seem like the early-riser type. Maybe she’d convince him to go to school, wash his face so he doesn’t look so high as always. Maybe she sat at that table, the one with the stupid bowl of apples, and drank her morning coffee, thinking that maybe this year, her son would make some good friends, stop doing drugs, go to school more, hell, stop being so angry. Maybe she thought he would have a long and successful senior year then go on to some fancy-pants college they could afford to put him in. That this would be the year their family would be better, less fighting and less screaming. That she would have a son to be alive for more than a day or two after the year started.
She sure as hell couldn’t have expected that this would be the year that she would be put through unimaginable heartbreak. The year four Murphy’s would become three.
Someone knocks on the door, and in a panic of not knowing what to say, I keep my mouth shut. More insistent knocks. I take a deep breath. “One minute!” I holler back at last, hoping my voice doesn’t give away the fact that I’ve been crying for about fifteen minutes straight.
There’s a frustrated sigh on the other end, and I pack up my sandwich, then manage to stand up.
Maybe I’ll call Cynthia after work, make sure she’s alright. Ever since I told them I lied, things have been better between us all, but Cynthia has surprisingly been the most forgiving, even though she’s the one I hurt the most. I guess that’s just the type of person she is.
I look at myself in the mirror, my eyes red and puffy from crying. I splash water on my face, but it really doesn’t do anything. Patting it dry with some coarse napkins from the dispenser, I let out a soft groan. I’m sick of shitty years, expecting that the next one will be better without any effort . I crumple up the napkin, tossing it, and catch a final glimpse of myself in the mirror before leaving.
Maybe this’ll be the year when things finally get better . This’ll be the year when I give myself a chance… a chance to be happy for once . Even if I don’t deserve it .