across
her pillow. I put a finger to her wrist to make sure she still has a pulse.
Sure enough, she does. Pills from a half-empty bottle are strewn out across her
nightstand. Without hesitation, I grab a handful and pop them in my mouth. I
don’t care what they are, but that night with Mischa was the freest I’ve felt
in months. I use her water bottle to wash them down and leave the room. Barely
making it to the staircase, I collapse on the top step and hug the railing.
Everything is going downhill. Here I am, a week shy of seventeen. I should be
having the best years of my life, but nothing makes any sense. My parents don’t
give a damn about me. I can’t talk to my best friend because all she cares
about is getting drunk. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to, no one that
I feel like talking to anyway. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to talk to
anyone. I don’t want to deal with life.
I sit on the step
silently crying for the longest time, listening to the large clock in the
living room tick. With each second that passes, the tick tock resonates through
the hallway and up through the stairs. It represents another moment in this
house. Another step closer to being eighteen. When I’m eighteen, I can leave
this place, this home, this town.
When it’s time to make
my way to Killian’s place, the pills have kicked in and subdued my pity. My
crying has ceased, and I feel better than I have in a long time. I don’t care
about my parents’ problems, and I have this massive urge to smile. I feel on
top of the world instead of the world being on my shoulders. Barefoot, I stroll
across the lawn to Killian’s front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Just
like mine, his parents are hardly ever home, and I doubt they are here now. My
body is pulsing with pleasure. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, but not quite.
I sit back against the porch railing and enjoy the high. It’s like nothing bad
can ever touch me, and in a world where I feel invisible, this is the greatest
feeling in the world.
“What are you
thinking?” Killian says, his blue eyes staring into mine. We’re face-to-face.
I blink. How did he get
here? “You don’t wanna know.”
He sits back and
crosses his hands in front of his chest. “Try me.”
“I’m tired of never
being enough. I’m tired of making the wrong choices. My father’s gone, and I’m
sure he hates me. I slept with Mischa, and I’m certain he used me.”
“I see…” He looks
uncomfortable, fidgeting his hands and biting his bottom lip.
“See? I told you so.
Guys don’t like to talk about the personal stuff.”
“Come on, what makes
you think he used you? And your father? You complain about him never being
around anyway. As for Mischa…”
His eyes close, and he
swallows so loudly I can hear it from where I stand. “Did you ever think about
not being so easy?”
Wincing from the shock
of his words, the fact that he just called me a whore, I impulsively bring my
hand up and slap him. My fingers make a sharp impact with his cheek, and I hope
the stinging in my hand is only a portion of what he feels. His face is frozen,
stunned by the fact that I, Cody, had the balls to slap him. I’ve never hit
anyone in my entire life. I’m normally a passive person.
A little voice inside
of me tsks.
It’s true, you know.
You let Mischa use you. You begged him to sleep with you. He told you he
couldn’t make any promises. And Dad? You knew he wasn’t around. Deep down, you
had to know something was up.
“Don’t you ever speak
to me again,” I whisper. I make a move to slap him again, but he grabs my wrist
and holds it tight in the air. His mouth is set in a hard line.
“I’m sorry, Cody. I
shouldn’t have said that.” His voice is pitiful, breaking me in two. “I’m so
sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re not easy. You’re just trying to live and to
feel, I know that. I understand it.”
He pulls me close,
wrapping his arms around me in the most
her pillow. I put a finger to her wrist to make sure she still has a pulse.
Sure enough, she does. Pills from a half-empty bottle are strewn out across her
nightstand. Without hesitation, I grab a handful and pop them in my mouth. I
don’t care what they are, but that night with Mischa was the freest I’ve felt
in months. I use her water bottle to wash them down and leave the room. Barely
making it to the staircase, I collapse on the top step and hug the railing.
Everything is going downhill. Here I am, a week shy of seventeen. I should be
having the best years of my life, but nothing makes any sense. My parents don’t
give a damn about me. I can’t talk to my best friend because all she cares
about is getting drunk. I don’t really have anyone else to talk to, no one that
I feel like talking to anyway. Or maybe it’s that I don’t want to talk to
anyone. I don’t want to deal with life.
I sit on the step
silently crying for the longest time, listening to the large clock in the
living room tick. With each second that passes, the tick tock resonates through
the hallway and up through the stairs. It represents another moment in this
house. Another step closer to being eighteen. When I’m eighteen, I can leave
this place, this home, this town.
When it’s time to make
my way to Killian’s place, the pills have kicked in and subdued my pity. My
crying has ceased, and I feel better than I have in a long time. I don’t care
about my parents’ problems, and I have this massive urge to smile. I feel on
top of the world instead of the world being on my shoulders. Barefoot, I stroll
across the lawn to Killian’s front door. I ring the doorbell and wait. Just
like mine, his parents are hardly ever home, and I doubt they are here now. My
body is pulsing with pleasure. It’s almost as good as an orgasm, but not quite.
I sit back against the porch railing and enjoy the high. It’s like nothing bad
can ever touch me, and in a world where I feel invisible, this is the greatest
feeling in the world.
“What are you
thinking?” Killian says, his blue eyes staring into mine. We’re face-to-face.
I blink. How did he get
here? “You don’t wanna know.”
He sits back and
crosses his hands in front of his chest. “Try me.”
“I’m tired of never
being enough. I’m tired of making the wrong choices. My father’s gone, and I’m
sure he hates me. I slept with Mischa, and I’m certain he used me.”
“I see…” He looks
uncomfortable, fidgeting his hands and biting his bottom lip.
“See? I told you so.
Guys don’t like to talk about the personal stuff.”
“Come on, what makes
you think he used you? And your father? You complain about him never being
around anyway. As for Mischa…”
His eyes close, and he
swallows so loudly I can hear it from where I stand. “Did you ever think about
not being so easy?”
Wincing from the shock
of his words, the fact that he just called me a whore, I impulsively bring my
hand up and slap him. My fingers make a sharp impact with his cheek, and I hope
the stinging in my hand is only a portion of what he feels. His face is frozen,
stunned by the fact that I, Cody, had the balls to slap him. I’ve never hit
anyone in my entire life. I’m normally a passive person.
A little voice inside
of me tsks.
It’s true, you know.
You let Mischa use you. You begged him to sleep with you. He told you he
couldn’t make any promises. And Dad? You knew he wasn’t around. Deep down, you
had to know something was up.
“Don’t you ever speak
to me again,” I whisper. I make a move to slap him again, but he grabs my wrist
and holds it tight in the air. His mouth is set in a hard line.
“I’m sorry, Cody. I
shouldn’t have said that.” His voice is pitiful, breaking me in two. “I’m so
sorry. I didn’t mean it. You’re not easy. You’re just trying to live and to
feel, I know that. I understand it.”
He pulls me close,
wrapping his arms around me in the most
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