Trouble With Fiction

He screamed as a child, cross eyed and ridiculed, and he cried silently. He swallowed the screams, and they later rose into giant boils of acne. He faced the world just fine, pizza faced and silent fumes blazing. Echoing as he popped each white cap on his face, like a piece of corn shooting out. Fuck, man. But no one saw as he drove off into the wee morning hours. No one saw him pushing the truck down to the gully so the folks wouldn't hear the engine start. What did they remember about all this shit anyways? Narrow world, unhappy, fucking living at home at 20. What did they know of being born disfunctional and not good enough. Never good enough.
Told you weren't ever gonna be good enough. FUCK! Why not just date some imbecile fat chick with acne....suicidal...eating the wrapper on a fucking reeses like it was supposed to be edible...
At least he felt wanted.
At least he treated her right. So he thought. Better than she was ever treated before now...and he felt like a prince, a father. A good father. Or better yet, he felt needed and respected and worshipped. And needed. Needed was primary. To be the leader. Ahhh, leadership.
Better that than treating her wrong, even if she was all he got in life. Trailer trash suicidal bullshit needy crap.
She got a pregnancy test, and the folks found the receipt. He told everyone it was for her friend.
She got arrested for shoplifting. He told everyone if was her friend that put the stuff in her bag.

Fiction smells like bullshit, man. Fiction smells like the stories my brother tells. Is truth stranger than fiction???
I hope so.