Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101667 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
“Stand up like a man, Tyler,” he says. “You drove home like this?”
My vision blurs, and I see two of him in front of me. “Yeah…”
“You tryin’ to get killed? Or kill someone else?”
I blow out a breath and shove my hand through my long tangled hair. All I want to do is lie down before the nausea rippling through me makes a messy appearance. “No…just blowin’ off some steam.”
He rubs his forehead in frustration. “This shit is gonna stop. Today. Your mother and I aren’t going to sit back and watch you throw your life away—”
“What life, Pop?” I scoff. “What fucking life do I have?”
“Any life you want.”
“Like this? Looking like this?”
“Scars don’t define you, Tyler. What you do—and how you treat others—does. You’re hurting. You’re mad at the world. I get it. More than you know.” A hint of sadness and regret deepens his tone. “But people live with far worse problems than what you’re dealing with. Stop letting this ruin you. You’re better than this.”
No one seems able to grasp that, to me, I am ruined. Broken and wrecked and wandering around lost without a compass. “Well, sorry I’m such a big disappointment to you. Thank God you got five other kids to be proud of.”
His eyes soften, my words hitting him like a punch. “That never even crossed my mind. I’ve always been proud of you. You’ve always been special. But you need some help getting out of this fucking hole you’re in. You think I’m just going to let you get drunk and high every day?”
“I’m nineteen. I can do whatever the hell I want.”
“Not under my roof you won’t. And not in my business. This bullshit of coming to the shop stoned every day is gonna stop, too. It’s time to grow up. I want you in rehab tomorrow.”
No way am I going to rehab to sit around with a bunch of drunks and addicts sharing my feelings and listening to theirs. I’m not like them at all, and I’d rather gouge out my own eyes and ears than put myself through that.
“Fuck that.” I push past him, but then I turn back. “And ya know what? Fuck all this. I’m outta here.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll just get out of your house and your shop for good.”
His shoulders drop as he sighs. “Tyler…just go upstairs and sleep it off. We’ll go together tomorrow. In a few weeks, you’ll be clean with a much better outlook on your life. Trust me.”
An obnoxious laugh erupts from me. “I seriously doubt that.”
Ignoring him as he continues to talk to my back, pleading with me not to leave, I stumble out of the house and jump on my bike, with him chasing after me in his bare feet. I glance back to see him stop halfway down the driveway—waving his hands at me, probably cursing me out—as I tear down the street.
Music blasting from my earphones quells my mood slightly as I ride up to the mountains, the only place I feel at peace, away from everyone. My bike tears up the dark, twisty mountain road, heading to a lookout point where I can pull over, roll a joint, and stare at the stars until this never-ending pain deep in my chest subsides. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what the hell I’m going to do next, but I definitely won’t be going to rehab or facing my parents. The last thing I need is more hospitals, doctors, and counselors telling me I’m going to be okay. None of them understand how not okay I really am.
And probably never will be.
It’s pitch black when I pull over to the remote dirt area that overlooks the towns below, but the glow of my cell phone gives me just enough light to find the old fallen tree I sit on every time I come up here. I watch the tiny car lights in the distance as I smoke the joint I just rolled, my only company the occasional breeze and an owl hooting off in the distance. Despite my peaceful surroundings, Wendy’s words continue to echo in my ears.
It skeeves me out.
Yeah, she was probably a bit drunk, and obviously in the midst of a fight, but she meant what she said. There’s a lot of truth in the words of angry people. There was a time when I thought I loved her, but I felt nothing but pity and disgust when I saw the bruises on her face. If I had ever really, truly loved her, it would have enraged me. I would have hunted that douchebag down and beaten him to a pulp, even if she wasn’t mine anymore. Maybe we never really did love each other. I reach into my pants, pull out the bag of drugs, and swallow two pills dry. I wait for the bitter pills to drag slowly down to my stomach before I grab my cell phone and press the speed dial for my oldest brother, who picks up on the fourth ring