The oedipus complex

I didn’t just have another wet dream about my stepmother. The lie tasted sour as I whispered it to the ceiling, my fists clenched in the sheets. Dawn bled through the curtains, painting my room in guilty gold. Down the hall, the shower hissed, I squeezed my eyes shut, but my traitorous brain filled in the gaps. The steam clinging to her skin, the water sliding down her back, the way her robe would gape slightly revealing just the right amount of skin when she leaned over to towel her legs. FUCK. I kicked off the damp sheets, my heart hammering. Eighteen years old, and I was still choking on this sickness. She isn’t my real mother, at least not by blood, but she is nonetheless at least in every way that matters. She’d wiped my tears, kissed my scraped knees. And now? Now I was just some pathetic cliché, j*********f to the woman who packed my lunch. The shower cut off. I counted her footsteps. one, two, three, past my door and into her room at the end of the hall. My throat tightened. Three seconds of silence stretched thin before i willed myself out of bed, changed my sheets, and made my way to the bathroom, the one she’d just used. I let the cold water run down from my head, maybe it would wash away all the thoughts and the feelings too. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast and Isolan's jasmine perfume. She stood at the counter, a loose shirt hung on her small build with her pink apron cinched tight around her waist, pouring coffee into Dad's favorite mug—the one that said “ worlds okayest dad” Her damp hair curled at the ends where it escaped her messy bun. “Good morning” i said as I made my way down the stairs. "You're up early." She looked up, her eyes crinkling in her usual smile but her voice void of her usual warmth as she lowered the coffee pot. “I have an early practice today” I grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl. The refrigerator hummed too loud in the silence. "Is your father driving you?" She asked handing me a folded crisp paper bag. "He's heading in the opposite direction today. “Hmm” she nodded as I took the bag, our fingers touching for a brief moment. The clock above the stove ticked through seconds before she pulled her hand away but it felt like hours. Her eyes, the color of whiskey held up to sunlight, flicked over my appearance, “will you be back early for dinner” she asked. “Likely” “Walking?” “I’ll take the bus” “Then you better get going, don’t forget your water bottle and tell coach mead i send my regards” she wiped her hands on her apron as she made her way to the fridge then around the counter and handed me my bottle. “Good luck, Tavi” she squeezed my hand as she said the spell she’d said everyday since the day I’d first met her before letting go. My heart fluttered against my rib cage and for a moment it looked like hers did too, her eyes glazing over to meet mine. I tucked the bottle into my cross bag and made my way out the door. I had planned to take the bus but the cold August air felt nice against my face and gave me time to think. The cold air burned my lungs as I walked, the gravel crunching under my shoes. By the time the bus stop came into view, my thoughts were still as tangled as they’d been when I’d woken up. Coach Mead’s voice would cut through it soon enough. It always did. Practice meant drills, sweat, noise, anything loud enough to drown out the quiet house and the thoughts that followed me out of it. I glanced at the street behind me. The house looked ordinary in the morning light. Too ordinary for the conflict it was causing in my head and heart. “Get it together” I muttered to myself. The words came out in a puff of air. They didn’t help. A pickup rumbled past, tires hissing on the damp road, and the sound snapped me back into the morning. The bus stop sign leaned crooked beside the ditch, the bench still wet with the morning dew. I stayed standing. Running had always been easier than thinking. Coach Mead said that was why I was good at it. Long legs, stubborn lungs, and a brain that quieted down once my feet hit rhythm. I rolled my shoulders and started jogging the rest of the way to school. Gravel turned to pavement. Pavement turned to the familiar cracked sidewalk that ran along the football field fence. The metal bleachers sat empty in the early light, silver and cold. A few crows hopped across the turf like they owned the place. The locker room lights were already on. Of course they were. Coach Mead believed in two things, discipline and showing up before everyone else. I pushed through the door and the smell hit me immediately. Rubber mats, detergent, old sweat baked into old wood benches. “Vidar” His voice echoed from the weight room. I leaned my head through the doorway. Coach Mead stood beside the rack, stopwatch already around his neck, clipboard tucked under his arm like it had grown there. “You’re early” he said. “You’re earlier” A corner of his mouth twitched. That was basically a laugh for him. “Warm up lap. Then we start intervals” “Yes, coach” Outside, the sun had climbed a little higher. The track still held the chill from the night. I stretched quickly, then took off at an easy pace. One lap. My shoes tapped against the red rubber. Two laps. My breathing settled into that steady rhythm. Three. By the fourth lap, the noise in my head had started to thin out. It always did. Not disappear. Just, fade into the background. Like a radio in another room. By the time the rest of the team showed up, dragging themselves through the gates with backpacks and half-awake complaints, sweat was already running down my spine. “Man, you sleep here or something?” Jordan called from the sideline. “Just trying to beat your time” I shot back. “Impossible” Coach Mead blew his whistle before the argument could start. “Line up” We ran until our legs burned. Then we ran some more. Sprints. Drills. Starts. Form work. Coach barked corrections like a metronome. “Drive your knees!” “Don’t look down!” “Again!” By the end of practice my shirt clung to my back and my lungs felt like they’d been scrubbed clean with sandpaper. Which, weirdly, felt good. Because when I finally sat on the grass, staring at the pale blue sky, my head was quiet for the first time all morning. Jordan flopped down beside me. “You coming to the game tonight?” he asked. “What game?” He looked at me like I’d grown another head. “Home opener. Varsity soccer. Half the school’s gonna be there” I shrugged. “Maybe” “So, no” I didn’t answer. My mind had already drifted somewhere else. Home. The kitchen. Burnt toast. Whiskey-colored eyes. I rested my face in my hands, my lips parting in a sigh. “You good?” Jordan asked placing a hand on my shoulder. “Yeah.” “You sure?” “Just tired.” Coach’s whistle shrieked again. “Locker room! Ten minutes!” Jordan groaned and hauled himself up. I stayed seated a second longer. Just long enough to let one clear thought settle in. Running could quiet the noise. But it didn’t fix the problem waiting back at the house. And eventually, I’d have to walk through that door again.