Time.
She can’t handle it when Sean goes off the deep end. She’s never once nursed him through a withdrawal. Instead, she holes up and drowns herself in a bottle of booze until he’s better. It’s sickening. She’s the one who’s supposed to take care of us, but we’ve always been the ones who take care of her. And when Sean was diagnosed with bipolar disorder, it left me taking care of everyone.
I start to feel enraged. Like all my emotions are bubbling beneath the surface.
“I have to go,” I announce before I explode.
Wrong move on my part.
“You can’t leave!” she screams, chucking the bottle across the room barely missing my head. It explodes against the doorframe, the jagged shards of glass hitting me in the face like shrapnel.
I don’t even have a second to react before she comes after me. I see the drunken rage in her eyes just before she hits me. Bam. A direct shot right to the mouth. I taste blood. Then she begins to claw at my face, incoherently muttering profanities as she attacks me.
It takes me a few seconds to gain some stability as four different kinds of pain sears through me; glass stabbing me in the face, nails ripping through my skin, a throbbing lip, and an ache in my chest from my true reality.
With an animalistic snarl I pick her up and throw her over my shoulder while she kicks and screams, making a beeline straight for the bathroom. Without losing momentum, I drop her into the tub, flick on the shower, then leave with her writhing under the ice-cold water.
“Ryan!”she shrieks just as I slam the front door behind me.
I really wish I never had to come back to this fucking shit-hole again.
* * *
There arepieces of glass in my face, my lip is bleeding, and my heart is broken.
I’m pretty sure this is the worst day of my life.
I drive through the entrance of Sandy Hook toward the beach where Alana and I have spent most of the summer. The one with the killer view of the city and the amazing sunsets. I’m confident this is the last time we’ll be here together.
I drive down the stretch wiping my mouth with my T-shirt in a last-ditch effort to stop the bleeding.
The newest pop sensation is crooning through the speakers about zip code envy, and it’s pathetic how much I can relate to this song. I punch the music off and glance at myself in the rearview mirror. It looks like I was in a car accident.
But as bad as I look on the outside, my insides are way worse.
A dirt-poor pauper on his way to meet his picture-perfect princess so she can land the final blow that will completely shatter his heart.
At least knowing the truth will put me out of my misery and spit me back into the reality I belong. Which — wonderful for me — is a really messed-up, pitiful existence.
I see Alana pacing next to her Audi as I pull up. She’s wearing tight blue jeans that stop at her calves, with a loose white top and a long, gold necklace with charms dangling on the end.
She looks like a model.
I look like a crash-test dummy.
I hop out of my Jeep, and of course her first question is,“What happened?”She goes to touch my face, but I grab her wrist. “Don’t.” It’s not a terse response, but it’s not exactly welcoming either. Her face falls; she’s trying to understand.
“What’s going on?”
What’s going on? You’re cheating on me with an Armani model, my brother is going through withdrawals in my bedroom, and my mother just beat the living shit out of me.
“Don’t you think I should be asking you that question?” I accuse.
“What?” She blinks rapidly.
“Don’t play dumb. I saw you.”
“Saw me do what?”