CREATIVE WRITING PART ONE

"I don't care about this goddamn country, I don't care about this stupid house, I don't care about the stupid culture or this goddamn impossible language. And I sure as hell don't care about what my father wants me to do!" I felt the noticeable pain in the back of my throat as I chocked out the last of that sentence.
 I couldn't help the reoccurring tears in my eyes as I said the words "my father" because I hadn't really called my old man "my father" since he moved us to Argentina one year ago. I usually call him The Invisible man in my head and journal. I mean I had never met the guy who claimed to have raised me, yet he always seemed to be floating over all of our heads. He never came over for dinner, or stay out late with me playing catch, or really taken any time to get to know me or at least meet me. But this man had always been a part of my life, in a dangerous way. The Invisible Man payed the hospital bills after my incident (which is a strange way to phrase terminal cancer but my mother insists on never using the "c" word around her), he payed to ship me of the boarding school, and when he found that even that didn't get rid of me he payed to fly us to Argentina. My mom and I live  alone - now with Maria our live in maid - and she has learned to use my fathers name as a threat, as she was doing now.
"Silas, get out here right now! I will call Antonio this minute and send you away to another school in Alaska if you don't get your act together! You have no excuse this time," there was a long pause. I could hear her short, worn-out body slide against the door and sigh. "You have no excuse." her voice was quiet now and Maria had stopped screaming meaningless Spanish words in the air. Everything was still for a moment and I couldn't help but hold my breath. Then she stood up and walked away. Door opened. And closed. She was probably going out for a smoke. She was always smoking.
I guess after finding out someone can get lung cancer without smoking, her own son can find only three more years to his life without ever touching a cigarette, why bother caring about her own lungs? Why bother caring whether or not she dies? Why bother caring?
I'm with her on that last one.