"Erin!" my mom yells up the stairs at me. I don't respond. She knows I don't answer to that name anymore. I hear an irritable sigh. "Lucas!"
"Yeah, mom?" I call back.
"I told you to do the washing up like, an hour ago! Fucking do it already." I roll my eyes and go back to FaceBook, reading the last message my friend sent me.
Erin? You there still?
I grit my teeth. Washing up is better than this sometimes. I slide back my chair, wincing as the wooden legs scrape against the bare floorboards, no doubt scratching them again. Slouching downstairs, my sister lances at me out of her bedroom door, flashing me this look of utter disdain and I turn my eyes to the floor, watching my feet hitting the floor with a quiet slapping sound as they carry me downstairs to the kitchen.
"Erin, I don't care if you think that your little internet buddies are more important," mom starts her usual rant at me, "if I ask you to do the washing up or something, you got to do it. You know that." I don't say anything again. Stop using that fucking name. "And what is all this shit about wanting to be called Lucas? That's a boy's name." I shrug. I know exactly why it is I want to be called Lucas instead of that horrible name I was given at birth. I just can't tell you.
"I just prefer it. What's wrong with that?"
"Because Erin's the name I gave you, baby. I like it." Yeah? That's nice, mom. I don't. I don't think it's sunk in yet that I hate my name, has it? I don't say anything again.