Chapter 16 – Daph's POV

Tomorrow Never Knows

https://youtu.be/pHNbHn3i9S4

I'm laying in my bed, staring at my ceiling unable to sleep.

Why did we have to talk? Why did we have to exchange words about anything other than how I wanted him to take me?

Because now I know that as always, hot guys are fucking stupid, and he might be cute, but that's probably all he's got going for himself.

He prefers the Rolling Stones.

Who in their right goddamn mind would pick the Stones over the Beatles?

Someone with no taste in music, that's who. And I can't be fucking someone with no taste in music.

I could fuck someone with mostly bad taste, but not someone that disrespects the Beatles.

Someone that said anything wrong about their 1969 hair.

I have standards. They're very low, but I still have them. And not loving the Beatles? Yeah, that's a lifetime ban from riding on Daphnee's Pirate Ship.

But the problem is... when I close my eyes all I can think about is his mouth on my skin, his hand in my shirt and mine in his pants.

Not actually doing it with him would be the most ungratifying experience of my young life.

After all the foreplay, thinking about never actually having a gratifying end is... well pretty disappointing to say the least.

I kinda told him I'd see him again next week.

But I have no idea if I'll actually show up.

The best option is probably to just bang him and then forget about him.

I'm just obsessing over him because of all the anticipation. I'm probably going to be disappointed anyway.

I toss and turn in my bed for another hour, fighting between thinking about Hot Flea Market Boy's hands on me and thinking about punching him in the throat for disrespecting ma boyz.

Finally, I sit up and give up. I head to the kitchen to binge eat something that will make me feel full and bloated and hopefully even more miserable.

I'm surprised to see my mother sitting at the counter, eating cereals while playing a game on her phone.

"You didn't have overtime," I say, heading to the fridge.

My mother worked the evening shift till midnight at the ER and usually had overtime.

She does a surprised little jump, and then smiles at me. "Hey honey, what are you doing up?"

"I just can't seem to sleep," I reply and grab leftover lasagna.

I think I'm slightly lactose intolerant. Hopefully the cheese on that pizza will awaken something bad in my intestine and I can focus on feeling like shit instead of thinking about a useless boy.

"You've got a lot on our mind?" Mom asks me.

I shrug while heating up the lasagna in the microwave. "I guess."

I don't know if feeling guilty about wanting to sleep with a guy that doesn't like the Beatles counts as a lot on my mind.

I don't know if I want to talk to her about this.

My relationship with my mother is... strange. In some ways we're very very close, and in others, we're kinda like strangers.

Like I tell her intimate random stuff, but then I keep other big things to myself.

For a while it was just me and her, so of course I used to tell her more, but I was young back then, and didn't know any better.

I guess I just don't know how to open up... like in general.

"You'd tell me, right?" I suddenly say.

Mom frowns, confused. "Tell you what?"

"If George Harrison was my father."

She snorts. This is not the first time I've brought this up... this week. "No honey, George Harrison is not your father."

"Is it Dhani then? Is Dhani my father?"

She rolls her eyes this time. "No, George Harrison's son is also not your father. No on related to George Harrison is your father."

"Are you sure? Not even some long-lost cousin?" I press.

"Not that I'm aware."

All of me wants to tell her, well just give me something to work with and I'll track him down and ask.

Just give me something.

"Is what's on your mind... you know, that?" Mom asks, looking a little worried.

What am I supposed to say? It's not that, but then again, it's always that.

All my bad decisions when it comes to men probably all come from my non-existent relationship with my father.

Sometimes, I'd actually prefer having a bad relationship with him rather than none at all.

And the worst thing in all of this is that I have no idea if I don't have a relationship with him because of him or because of my mom.

I know nothing.

And I hate it.

"Because you know your step-father loves you like you're his own," my mother adds in that tone of hers I hate, the one that exists specifically to make me feel guilty.

I know that. I fucking know that, but I hate it every time she brings that shit up when I try to talk about my biological father, like wanting to know anything about him makes me the bad guy. Like it might hurt my step-dad because I want to know about my real father.

Even just saying real father is taken as an insult in this house.

But how the fuck am I supposed to address him as? The sperm-doner?

My wanting to know about my real father has nothing to do with my step-father, but apparently everyone takes everything personally here.

I'd like to be able to scream IT'S NOT ABOUT YOU sometimes.

"Daphnee?"

"No, it's fine, I just have school stuff I think about. It's no big deal," I answer in a rush and sit at the counter with my lasagna.

"You know you can talk to me about it if you want to."

"I know," I answer with a smile, like everything is fine. "Anyway, how was work?"

I always do this.

They ask me to talk about my feelings. I say everything is alright, and then I divert the conversation back to them.

Because they must not really want to know what I think about. They prefer talking about themselves. Most people do.

"It was fine. I'd just like it if for once people understood that we don't buy it when they say they slipped and accidently fell on a lubed-up Cheese-Whiz jar."

I snort. "Lovely."

"Humans are very creative, I'll give them that."

"Anything else just as daring?"

Mom starts talking about the gossips at the hospital and I kind of just nod here and there and laugh at the right time.

But inside I just kind of feel... disconnected.

Maybe my real problem is that I don't know how to connect with people in general, or just to have empathy. I know that technically I should be putting myself in my mother's shoes and understand that it's difficult for her to talk about my father. It's always been.

But I'm kind of a heartless bitch. Always have been.

When I'm done with my lasagna, I tell my mother good night and go brush my teeth before heading back to my room.

I lay in bed.

I close my eyes. I can still feel Hot Flea Market Boy's lips on mine. His hands on me. His smile against my skin.

I open my eyes again and stare at my ceiling.

I hate all of this. 

_________

Surprised? 8D 

Sorry about the long wait for this chapter, and sorry of it's short. But something is better than nothing, right? I have too many things to work on at the moment, I'm very sorry again!

Also! If you follow the live readings of Pitiful I Know, you know that we passed Daph's chapter two weeks ago, and to celebrate that I'll be doing a live this Friday with my friend that inspired Daphnee. So if you have questions you'd like for her or me to answer, you can leave them here.

The live will be on my instagram page at instagram.com/kaygiard on Friday April 30th, at 8PM EST.

Anyway, thanks for your patience, as always. I really appreciate it. :D