When I was little, my parents showed off the silly stories I wrote to all their friends with pride. Everytime, I grinned wide as my parents bragged about me, because it felt good to be called brilliant.

When I realized that I was, at best, average, it broke me.

I didn’t stop smiling because at least my parents smiled too, looking at me like I was worth something. I called it the Gifted Kid Grin.

“You’re going to write the next bestseller!”

Gifted Kid Grin.

“Can’t you see him writing for television?”

Gifted Kid Grin.

“You’re so gifted!”

Gifted Kid Grin.

(Even though the word gifted felt like a knife to the heart.)

I couldn’t break their hearts by showing them that they’d dedicated their lives to raising and supporting someone unworthy of that devotion.

I got into college, but it was meaningless. People in high school wrote circles around me; people in college would make me look like a complete idiot.

“I know you’re going to wow everyone.”

Gifted Kid Grin.

I hugged my parents goodbye, and their smiles grew wider than mine, excited and proud, like I was going to go and be somebody.

I was proven right. I wrote a pathetic story for our school’s writing zine, a slasher story with the boyfriend being the killer, and I was, of course, rejected.

I wanted to blow my brains out. I saw my future self in that moment; a two-bit nothing who mooched off his parents and got constantly rejected by publishers.

I wanted to spare my parents from that reality as long as possible, letting them think they hadn’t raised a talentless fuck-up.

My parents came to visit my apartment that weekend.

Mom beamed at me. “How’s my prodigy doing?”

“Fine.” I gave her the Gifted Kid Grin.

We made our way to the kitchen.

“I saw your school has a writing magazine,” Dad remarked. “I bet you’ve got a story in it. You’ve always had a gift when it comes to writing.”

“I didn’t get accepted.”

I felt their eyes bore into me as my Gifted Kid Grin wavered, and my stomach twisted into knots. My mom gave me a pitying frown, and my dad’s expression grew pinched. When I saw the concern in their eyes, I nearly threw up on the spot.

I couldn’t even keep it together in front of my parents.

“Honey?” Mom’s voice wavered.

I had to make this right.

I reached for a kitchen knife.

I tore a line upwards from the left side of my mouth, trying not to cry out from the pain tearing at my mouth, or gag at the coppery liquid dripping onto my tongue.

My Dad screamed. “What’re you doing?!”

I tore at the right side, driven by the desire to make the distress in my Dad’s voice go away.

“Oh, god,” my mom sobbed.

“It’s okay!” I gave my parents my biggest Gifted Kid Grin yet. “I’ll get into the zine next time.”