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"How was school, kid?”

While holding the phone with my shoulder, I wiped the knife back and forth on the bread. Shrugged even though I knew he couldn’t see me do it. “Usual,” I mumbled. “Fought with Christian again. Doesn’t feel like I won, but I got some good punches in.” I rubbed at my own black eye tenderly for a moment before putting my knife down and smushing the pieces together. The knife wasn’t so different from the one I used nightly.

“Good job! Wish I could’ve been there to cheer you on.” I could tell he was trying to be the cool dad. Understanding everything that I’m going through, being supportive and cheering me on even for stuff like getting in a fight… But I knew he was just really confused by a lot of things I do. Like why I picked so many fights. Or why I couldn’t pass my classes. Or why I didn’t invite any friends over. No wonder he was worried. “You making yourself dinner? Or is it just a PB & J again?”

I put the jars away and took a bite of my sandwich. “Nope,” I lied through my peanut butter. Then, before he could question me further, I changed the subject. “When are you gonna be home tonight?”

A small pause on the other end of the line caused my heart to sink. That was enough of an answer. Dad’s never home. Even when he is home, he doesn’t feel like my dad. Like he was trying really hard to be my friend instead. Which would be fine, except that he was trying too hard. To the point where it wasn’t even him anymore. He never stopped acting, even when he spoke to me. I was talking to an acquaintance. “Kid, don’t wait up for me again, OK? It’s gonna be another late night at the studio and you have school tomorrow.”

“OK dad.” Same response as always. I tried not to let my depression seep into my words and sank into the couch. Time to turn on the TV and pull out my homework, knowing that I would read it over and over without really understanding it. Wouldn’t be watching the reruns of 50’s shows either. I’d be waiting for him when he got back. “I’m starting homework now. I’ll see you later. Drive safe.” My eyes watered even though all I felt was apathy. Wiped them before they could get my books wet.

“I will. Love you, kid.”

“Love you too.” Hung up and took another angry bite of my sandwich, if only to force my breathing steady. Turned the volume up so I couldn’t hear myself sniffle and stared down into my science book. But instead of formulas and equations, I only thought of him. He’s been nothing and everything to me at the same time- my whole life, ever since I can remember. And yet never really there. I’m always thinking about him, because I can’t talk to him much. Problem is, I don’t know who to think about. Is he the Russian superhuman teen known as the Flash? Is he the depressed comedian Charlie Chaplin? Or is he a child named Prosper, living off of what he can steal? And how the hell am I supposed to know?

All I do know is that I miss him. Or, I miss what could’ve happened. Like road trips to the beach, or disciplinary talks where we argue. And maybe he could ask why I’m failing my classes and picking fights and barely leaving the house. Watch movies together, fight over popcorn. Cry into his shoulder instead of into my fucking homework.

Finally I tossed my book aside in frustration. Can’t focus- or pretend to focus anymore. It’s only 10:30. I sighed and got up to head up to my room and change into pajamas. My room was dark, but the familiar shapes of my unmade bed and the modern dresser across the room guided me to the pile of clothes by my bathroom door. Stripped my clothes off in the dark, the only light available stretched across the floor from the window. Movement drew my attention to my bedside table, where Dennis my goldfish swam in his tank frantically at the sight of me. Probably just hoping for some food, but it was nice to pretend that at least someone was happy to see me. Trudged over to the tank and dropped some flakes in for him. He blew bubbles at me before tearing the food apart. Wish I had his tenacity.

I entered the dark bathroom and sat on the sink. Ready for my nightly emotion-trigger. A way to find the will to wake up tomorrow morning and not cut too deep. I pulled out the knife, turned the water on, and slid the sharp edge against my exposed thigh with a blank expression.

I didn’t want pity. I didn’t want attention. In fact, I didn’t want anything. This wasn’t a cry for help, like other people say it is for them. This was like my medicine. My Zoloft, or Sertraline. Sometimes I just need a jolt of pain to make me fear dying. To make me feel something- anything at all. Fuck, I’m crying already, only five lines in. I washed the knife off in the sink, wiped the blood away with a wet washcloth, and quickly wrapped some gauze around it. No mess this time. I sighed in relief. My boxers cover it pretty well.

I headed back to the living room, flipped the light switch down. Grabbed the blanket on the way back to the couch and shut the TV off. Curled in a ball on the fluffy sofa pillows and pretended to be happy. To fall into sleep I plugged my earbuds in and listened to some Tool. Tried to get my father out of my head, his face from behind my eyelids.

Well, it must’ve worked, because I was startled by the front door closing. A loud sigh, the sound of keys hitting the hook, and shoes being set on the rug. Steps shuffled over to the sofa where I lay in a sleepy haze, now listening to some Prince. They stopped in front of me, and he stood there for a few seconds just watching me, I assume. It felt like forever to me. Finally strong hands hooked under my neck and my legs and lifted me to rest against a strong chest. Warm breath surrounded my face as he sighed. “Kid, I told you not to wait up,” he whispered. I barely heard him through my earbuds. “And I smell the peanut butter, you liar.”

We made our way slowly up the stairs. I struggled to wake up completely, but the warmth was so numbingly sweet. So instead I just snuggled into it. Eventually he set me down on my bed. I missed the heat. But soon it came back to me: the mattress bent under his weight as he lay behind me. He’s never done this before. But it felt…

…nice. Until I felt a finger graze over my bandages.

I guess these shorts weren’t as long as I thought. I kept my eyes shut tight, trying to keep relaxed so he thought I was still asleep. Gosh, how am I gonna face him now? He’s gonna think this is all his fault, or get me a psychiatrist or something. These thoughts raced through my head during the minutes that he tensed behind me with his finger circling the gauze. Then he let out a sob. “God, I love you,” he whimpered quietly. “I don’t want you to be unhappy, and that’s what this means, right? I need to… figure out how to be a better dad. I’m so s-“

“Dad, I love you.” I cut him off before he could go on. I couldn’t stand to hear him so sad. “Nothing is your fault, and I love you and you’re a great dad. I’m just tired a lot, and sometimes I don’t feel things and it drives me crazy so I just force feelings. I’m sorry if I’ve disappointed you because I didn’t tell you. I just didn’t want you to be sad or awkward around me if I did. Please don’t cry.” I rubbed his hand that wrapped around me and choked back the threatening waterworks. When I turned over to face him I was glad the room was so dark. All I could see was his beard, his blue-green eyes glinting in the moonlight, and tearstains reflected on his cheeks. I’ve never seen him so vulnerable and I fucking hated it. “Please don’t cry,” I whispered sadly.

He nodded tersely and slowed his breathing. “Yeah. OK.” He sniffled. “OK. Do you… do you need something? We can… we can get you medicine. We can see if something else works before you resort to this. If you feel that nothing’s working, then you can…” He sobbed again and wiped at his eyes once.

“That sounds like a good idea,” I whispered back so that he wouldn’t burst into tears again. “You’re the best dad ever, especially when you’re not the Flash or the celebrity. I wanna hang out with that guy more often.”

He kissed my forehead and hugged me close. And I reveled in the heartfelt interaction. “I’m sorry. I think I was just scared of messing you up. Did such a good job on that front. No offense. Because you’re a great kid- couldn’t ask for a better one. I love you.”

“Thanks for understanding, Dad. If it were any other parent, they’d put me in a straightjacket.” It probably looked very awkward to anyone from a normal family. But for us this was the first step to rebuilding our relationship. “I love you too."