Total pages in book: 143
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130275 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
That ticket hidden in my wallet felt like it weighed a hundred tons. But I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. It was the thing I hated most in the world, yet my most treasured object.
Getting to my feet, I didn’t even look back at the others as I ran for the front door. I rushed straight into a sheet of ice-cold rain. The wind slapped at my face, a thousand palms across my cheeks. I didn’t have my jacket, but right now, the elements attacking my body felt good. The stinging of my cheeks reminded me I was still here, alive, even if I wasn’t really living.
Just thinking of that room filled with broken kids like me, Savannah clutching the journal to her chest like it was her biggest fear made flesh, made me furious. Travis crying just at the thought of writing something down.
It was bullshit. All of it.
Reaching down, I picked up a rock and launched it into the lake with all my strength. Before it had even hit the surface, I had another in my hand, bigger this time, pushing my forearm to its breaking point. Allowing the pent-up rage to race up my throat, I roared into the quiet night as I threw more rocks into the lake.
A broken branch came next. Then more rocks. One after the other until my muscles burned and my voice grew hoarse.
When I was exhausted, the questions came. Questions I knew would never be answered. One in particular—why? Why did he have to do it? Why did he have to leave me here like this? This wasn’t who I used to be. But now … I didn’t know how to be anything else.
Breathless and tired, I was left with only the self-hatred that always came after an outburst. Hatred with myself for not seeing the signs. For not seeing he was struggling. Tears built in my eyes. I tipped my head back to the heavy flow of rain, letting my tears meld with the heavy droplets, disguising the pain.
On a deep breath, I blinked open my eyes. I always felt a brief spell of numbness after an emotional outburst. It gave me a few moments of peace. Just a few precious moments to not sear. To just feel nothing.
I shuffled to the very edge of the lake, my boots an inch deep in the freezing water, and stared out over it. It seemed endless. Still and ancient. Like it would have seen a million people just like me, lost and alone and here for some kind of redemption arc. Some last-ditch attempt to save them from themselves and the shit hand the world had dealt them.
The gray clouds and moody weather reflected my dark inner thoughts. Then I cast my attention to the peaks, and for the first time in a while, I actually looked forward to something. There was a flicker of a spark. Some heat from a long-forgotten ember, deep down in my subconscious.
I liked exercise. I was physically fit. For a long time, sport was going to be my life. I was going to go professional. I lived for the dopamine rush that came with playing with my team, with the addictiveness of competition. Of playing the game I once loved more than breathing. I thrived in the coldness—the ice rink being my best friend. The idea of being trapped in hostel rooms and forced to talk about my past and feelings sounded like hell. Being outside in nature and walking, just … walking …, that I could do.
I stood out on the lake’s edge until I was drenched and shivering, and the chill of the harsh wind began to rattle my bones. I turned to go back to the house, taking the long, winding path that skirted around the back of the garden. Just as I was about to leave the surrounding forest’s tree line, I caught sight of someone sitting on the elevated rocky ledge that looked over another part of the huge lake.
Savannah.
I recognized her blond hair and petite frame. She was alone, huddled underneath a large umbrella, and she was holding something to her chest. For a moment, I thought it was the journal we’d just been given. But the notebook she held was larger and different in color.
I wondered what it was. For a second, I debated going over to her. I didn’t know for what. I had the sudden urge to just sit with her. She’d met my eyes in the living room. For a few minutes, it was like I’d ripped my chest open and she was seeing all my jagged scars.
Maybe she’d understand. Maybe she would be the one person who wouldn’t need to ask me probing questions because she knew what this living nightmare felt like. To have someone understand … to not have to explain what it felt like to be shattered so thoroughly, to understand that no words existed that could possibly ever explain this level of soul destruction. And to understand what it felt like to be alone with such devastating pain that, maybe, sometimes, made you wonder if it would be easy if you just ceased to exist too …