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The cafeteria pizza looks like expired rubber forced into something resembling bread and tossed into an oil slick for flavor. The Ohio state legislature probably recognizes the oil slick as a vegetable.
You try (and fail) to make a point of not looking at Veronica Sawyer. Veronica, who used to sneak you a real breakfast when you drove her to school in the mornings, who packed you an extra sandwich at lunch, because she knew it would be the only real meal you had that day.
Veronica won’t meet your eye now, and it’s your fault.
You force down the pizza in as few bites as you can manage. Your stomach and brain are at wills (disgutsing, greasy– the only hot meal you’ll get today just keep it down– you deserve less than this slop be fucking gratefull– just chew just swallow don’t think– ) but you’re thinking about it and trying not to retch from thinking about it. Where were you before lunch? Jazz band. Think about Jazz band. Rhapsody in blue.
Why does it have to be something blue. Fuck.
When you lose it all in the toilet you mostly feel angry at wasting the $3.50 worth of lunch money.
Spaghetti Marinara used to feel like you could pretend it was a real dinner. When you were twelve and learned to brown the meatballs (even if they were pre-cooked), it was enough of an effort that Bud would sit down with you at the dining table, and you could pretend to be a family for a half an hour.
Bud’s in his office now and gets his nutrients from beer and leftovers.
You used to have dinner at Veronica’s on Sundays. You try to snuff out the memories of meat loaf, pot roasts, and the thought that anyone ever cared enough to feed you.
You empty the boiled pasta into a bowl with a glob of jarred marinara and try to eat it like you used to. It used to just be fuel to get through another day; when you would see her again tomorrow and she would pull you out of your mire with kisses and smiles and promises of a normal life. You look at your bowl of noodles and sauce from a jar and know that it’s your own fault that no one cares about feeding you anymore, that this is all you have now; lukewarm pasta and greasy not-quite-pizza. You had something nice, had someone good, and you demolished it so quickly
Maybe you are just like your dad. Maybe you’re only here to destroy things.