Delete The History

DELETE THE HISTORY

He should have deleted the history, curse him. None of this would have happened if he had just deleted the freaking internet history.
I’m shaking; not just my hands. My face is shaking, my lips are shaking, my legs are sweating, and I’m in my room alone.
The parents are downstairs in the kitchen, discussing what shall be my punishment. Of course it’s my punishment. It’s always my punishment. Even when it is my fault it’s always my punishment. What should we ground Jason from this time? Taking away his iPod didn’t work.
I reach up and pull the metal chord to my ceiling fan and turn it on high, hoping that it will cool me. My very touch feels guilty. My hands feel foreign on everything, even against themselves.
As the ceiling fan spins faster I begin to shiver. The strangest thing has happened to me, my body is sweating and the skin is hot, but I feel cold inside. I stand up and walk to my closet, opening it. Again, my hands feel like they don’t belong anywhere. I pull away but grab my jacket. My lips are pressed tight and I can feel a tear running down my cheek.
I hate the way my tears always find their way to my lips. I don’t like to lick my own tears, it’s gross, but somehow every time the first one comes, more have to follow.
I hear a loud voice from downstairs. It’s definitely my dad. A cabinet door slams shut and I can hear my mom shouting back at him. The sheetrock that separates us doesn’t do enough to block out the sound. I don’t want to hear it right now so I stand up and walk into the bathroom, turning on the vent and fan so I can be alone.
But I’m not really alone. My heartbeat is so loud that it fills my ears, invading my thoughts once again. I wish I could block this all out. I reach into my pocket and fish around for my iPod, hoping that I didn’t leave it downstairs.
Apparently, I did. Well, it would seem I won’t have any music after all. I won’t be going downstairs anytime soon, and my mom has probably already taken it away for a year or more.
Even in the bathroom, the walls so resonant and echo-y, I can hear the marching of feet on the stairs as my parents come to “talk” to me.
There’s a quick jump in my heart as I realize what’s about to happen. I’ve known it would since my mom came to find me outside and told me that I was a disgrace to our family. There’s nothing I can do about it, they’ll find me even if I try to hide. And hiding wouldn’t do either, because I’m not as immature as they think I am.
I’m dreading what’s coming, but I’m not running from it.
There’s a loud knocking that comes from my room. I assume that it’s my door. It’s louder than a knock; in fact, I think my dad just kicked the door down. The bastard. The fucking bastard. He’s not even going to admit it.
My name is being called; they know I’m up here. First they’ll search my room, and then they’ll come to the bathroom. It’s my favorite place to go when I want to be alone. I often set up my microphone in here and record tracks when I the spare time.
Oh, how I wish I could do that now.
A fist pounds on the door and my name is called again. I stand up quickly and jerk the door open; my movements are quicker than I intend them to be. It almost makes it look like I was waiting for them to knock on the door, and that’s the last thing I want.
Staring back at me are two stubborn faces. One is my mother: kind, yet angry and disappointed. The other is my father: his brow is fouled. He’s trying not to show the paranoia in his eyes and cheeks, but it’s leaking through slightly. One might confuse it for disappointed, and it could easily pass for it, that’s what I hate about him most.
He’s so charming, he can make anything pass or make you believe what he wants you to just by his look.
It’s worked on me a few times. But then I caught him in the act, and that made me realize who he really is.
“Son…” he says. “Why don’t you come downstairs?”
“Because-” I cut myself off, realizing that saying what I want to say would probably just get me kicked out of the house at 16. “Sure,” I say enthusiastically. I hate the feeling of guilt, even if it’s fake guilt. I’m trying to act as normal as possible, seeing as how I haven’t done anything wrong, but everything’s all wrong. My smile seems too forced, my walk too bouncy, my mind is supposed to be on other things but it’s not.
Anyone watching can tell that I’m faking something. My mother’s eyes pierce me as I pass her. I’m at least 6 inches taller than her, but they always seem to be looking down at me.
My brother is standing at the bottom of the stairs. That’s the worst part about it all. I don’t give a fuck what my parents think, quite honestly. I could turn my back and not think twice. But the look on my brother’s face breaks my heart. I’ve always looked up to him. He’s 8 years older than me, after all. We’re separated in age enough to have a good relationship. We’re bros in every sense that there is.
His look isn’t as much curiosity as it should be. There’s a fair amount of disappointment in it as well. He knows what’s going on… but he doesn’t really know what’s going on.
I walk past him and continue into the living room where I take a seat on the couch. He watches, but doesn’t follow. My parents follow him and take their places directly across from me. At this point I’m not so afraid anymore. I’m more angry than I am anything else.
“Well?” my mom asks in her most typical TV-Parent voice. “Do you have anything to say for yourself?”
I fill my cheeks up with air as I think, then let it out and nod slowly. I won’t try to defend myself, it won’t do any good. They’ve already made up their minds about the situation. They’ve already thought it through and decided my future for the next two years.
“Well… I’m disappointed,” she continues. I take a breath and look her in the eye, still trying to maintain my dignity. I know what’s coming and I could probably quote it all for you by memory. Well, memory and the fact that I just know my parents that well. “I trusted you… and I gave you access to a computer,” she says.
I scoff on the inside. Her whole little speech makes me sick.
“But you betrayed me, Jason. You took off and did your own thing like- like- like I haven’t taught you well enough.”
“It’s not that.” I bite my tongue. Good job, Jason. Keep going. You might even manage to get parole.
“Oh then what is it?” she screams. I can see my brother slip outside out of the corner of my eye. I look at my dad, who’s still staring at me. His fake look of anger has faded a bit. He feels safe now that my mom has made up her mind. He knows her well enough to know that she’s gotten her mind set on me. He can act however he wants now and it won’t faze her.
But he doesn’t know what I know. I’m thinking about spilling the beans. Maybe?
“Go ahead… and tell me what you know,” I reason, trying to keep my voice calm. If I was on a lie detector I would be screwed for sure.
“You went to a porn site,” she says. My eyes focus past her shoulder at a cross hanging on the wall. There’s a scripture beneath it but it’s too small for me to read at this distance.
“And how do you know?” I ask.
“Jason… because it’s on the history bar.” She’s finally found her foothold. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am,” she says. “There’s a little tracker on the internet that records everything you do.”
Her plot to belittle me does the opposite. My pride bounces off the walls and I instantly feel larger. I contemplate the effects of sarcasm. If used lightly, that should produce a good result and get her attention, but too much will just earn me a grounding. Well, it’s not like I have much to preserve at this point.
My dad stands up. “Did I not teach you something?” he asks me.
“Oh no,” I tell him. “I do the opposite of everything you say.” That’s the truth, but it only has an effect on me. To them it’s true, but it follows their previous notions.
“Don’t give me that!” he yells back. “You’re in serious trouble mister. And you better tell us the truth or else you’re going to see a whole lot of hell for the rest of your life.”
I want to correct him that I only have 2 more years left living at home before I can move out, but that will only make him angrier. “You know what?” I stand up and look back and forth between them. I try to finish my sentence but I can’t think of any words for it. “It was you,” I look at my dad. “Fuck you.”
I turn around and run up to my room, but not before I grab my iPod. Suddenly, the fear is gone, but I only want to run now because of embarrassment. Or maybe it’s not embarrassment. I just want to get away from them. I take the stairs three at a time, and make it to my room. I take out my backpack from the closet and grab my cellphone. I fit my expensive microphone into it along with some cables and a flash drive. A notebook holding all of my songs somehow finds its way into a pocket of my backpack just as I’m leaving.
My parents are still downstairs. It’s a wonder they haven’t come up to find me just yet. I silently make my way down the stairs, though I doubt that I’m actually quiet. The adrenaline that still runs in my ears makes everything seem like a life and death situation.
I unlock the front door and open it, slipping out into the night. I take one last look inside the house. Its warm light falls on my face. I can see my mom and dad in the room. My mother’s crying in my father’s arms, but she continually tries to break away. He holds her close with a hand on her hair, kissing her scalp.
I give something like a scoff and a choke of tears as I step away and shut the door. I turn around and walk the short walkway to the cars. I hop in my car, which I paid for by myself. Inserting the key, the engine comes to life and I flick on the lights. I back out of the driveway level out on the street, watching through the window as I roll by.
I’m not coming back. I need to delete my history...