Chapter 1: EyeHateGod

Chapter 1EyeHateGod

The buildings along the 101 blurred past, his eyes unable to focus on anything. To Justino, it all may as well have been tumbleweeds in a desert. Why were the cars moving? Maybe they were going to argue with those idiot paramedics.
There were thousands of questions constantly circulating in Justino’s mind as he sat in a car bound for an address he had previously only ever thought of as a site of vacation. Never once would he have ever thought of it as the next place he was going to live. What did they mean he didn’t belong in apartment 2-D anymore? That was his home. The crucifix on the wall marked it. How could they simply evict him? What were they doing, taking his dad away? Why weren’t his neighbors anything to stop it? Why were they shoving him in this car? Didn’t they know that his dad was still alive? Why did they talk like Moisés had died? That was impossible. Moisés Navarro doesn’t die. He wouldn’t allow it. Why would God let Dad die like that? Was he not good enough? Was I not good enough?
Suddenly, his mind was jolted back to reality. “Sir? Sir. You don’t have to say anything, but you do have to get out of my car, I’m afraid,” said the rideshare driver. The ride was over.
Justino didn’t answer, the flurry of thoughts in his mind clearing into numbness. Just got out of the white Honda Civic and left. It felt odd entering this chateau here in Sherman Oaks. Under normal circumstances, he’d be excited to be here. It was, quite literally, the only vacation spot he’d ever been to. But… It felt wrong this time. Maybe because stepping through the gate meant admitting he was just ripped from his home. That this wouldn’t be just a vacation.
The front gate, well-oiled and silent, opened, allowing him onto the property. He walked up its path to the front door, dissociating all the while. Maybe if he pretended hard enough, he’d just wake up, and this would all be a bad dream. The face that answered belonged to someone he knew then as “tía Laura”. This pseudo-maternal figure was the largest patroness of his father. She asked him something he couldn’t quite hear. Something he couldn’t quite decipher, like his ears decided to give up working. The face’s body welcomed him in, asking him something again. He simply sat down on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket, and lay down. Said nothing to anyone, no matter how hard they shook him.
He awoke the next morning on that couch, dreading the fact that he was still breathing. He saw a face looking down at him. This one belonged to his best friend, Olivia de Hauteville. He’d known her since childhood, ages four and six respectively, and this had always been her habit of waking him up. Staring like an owl watching a mouse that knows not that it is dead already. He wiped his face, throwing the blanket off with the greatest unease. “Morning, Liv,” he said, his face drooped with morning grogginess and the weight of his father’s ghost on his shoulders.
“Ça va, ma petite?” She asked with an innocent smile.
He sighed. “Too early for French, Liv.”
“Justin, I do not jest… You came to me unwell yesterday. Like a pile without charge.”
“What the fuck does that mean, Kobe Bryant?”
“Une pile, the battery. That is besides the point, Justin, you are unwell!”
“Hm.”
“‘Hm’?!”
“Didn’t notice.”
He gets up and, without changing, grabs the milk from the fridge and pours it in his mouth.
“Ey, that is my milk, you cockroach!”
He dumps in whatever cereal is left with no regard for human decency.
“Mnghgh,” he says with his mouth full of crushed cereal.
He didn’t care what he was doing. Why bother doing anything at all? Nothing mattered anymore.
Down the stairs came Laura, interrupting his thoughts. She seemed awfully composed considering what happened the night before. Yet it became clear soon–the reason for her outward appearance of clarity. She sat down at the counter, patting the bar stool next to her, signalling for Justino to join her. Sluggishly, he sat. She looked at him with concern, and finally she spoke. “I… I heard what happened, min dreng.”
“Hm,” he said absently.
“I’m… I’m so sorry. He was special to me too…”
“Was he?”
“W-what… What kind of question is that? Of course he was! Your father was a dear friend of mine.”
Justino sighed. He didn’t want to hear any of that. He just wanted to be anywhere but inside his skin. Or something like that.
…
Some days passed, and it remained largely the same old routine of finding random things to do to kill time that didn’t involve talking to people. Finally, at the end of the week, CPS came knocking. Custody, and whatnot. Wasn’t really much of a contest to see who his new guardian would be—no one contested but Laura af Lyksborg herself. Once the final adoption form was made, signed and submitted, his new life in Sherman Oaks with Laura and his best friend began. Couldn’t really say it would be “living”, though.