Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69398 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 347(@200wpm)___ 278(@250wpm)___ 231(@300wpm)
Then, I walk out of that clubhouse and get into the car Waverly told me I could use until I could afford my own.
I hit the road, and I don’t look back.
That doesn’t mean that the tears don’t keep rolling down my face.
Or that the pain in my heart doesn’t grow.
It just means that for the first time in my life ... it’s about me.
4
THEN – BOHDI
17 YEARS OLD
“Bohdi!” Mom shrieks from her filthy bed in the room.
I wash the sheets, and she vomits on them again. So, I repeat the process. I try to leave water by her bedside, but she just hauls it against a wall. She lost both her jobs and spends her days in her room, drinking, doing drugs, and passing out. She rarely comes out, and when she does, it’s to eat very little amounts and find another bottle of alcohol.
I tried hiding them, throwing them out.
That earned me a black eye.
Her rage has gone to levels I don’t understand. Gone is the woman who sang songs to me when I was a boy, who used to push my hair away from my forehead and kiss it. The mother I grew up loving, has disappeared. In her place is an empty shell, addicted to drugs and alcohol.
I don’t know what she’s taking now, but she’s never been violent with me.
That only started a few weeks ago.
With every passing day, it gets worse.
I don’t know what to do anymore.
I’ve thought about trying to find my father, but what good will that do? It’ll only bring the pain to the surface again.
I can’t leave her, but I can’t live with her either.
I’m stuck in the middle with no way out.
“I have to go to work,” I say to her, when I reach her room and stare in. “Considering you don’t have a job now, I have to try and bring in some money.”
“I deserve it,” she slurs. “I have taken care of you for years. It’s time for you to return the favor. Get me my pills from the bathroom.”
“No,” I say, turning.
“You selfish little brat,” she screeches. “Bohdi get back here. You get back here.”
I ignore her. It’s all I have left. If I don’t respond, eventually, she’ll stop screaming. She needs help, I know this better than anyone, but I don’t know how to get her help. Without her wanting to do it for herself, I can’t do much. Hell, I can barely afford to eat, let alone find a rehab center for her.
I have thought of contacting my father, just purely for that alone. Maybe he’ll give me some money, considering it’s on him that she is like this. He left us with nothing. A father I looked up to walked out and never looked back. Surely he owes it to me to help us out. I don’t know if that’s the right thing. I don’t fucking know anything anymore.
“Bohdi!” Mom screams again, her voice shrill. “You get your sorry ass in here. If you don’t, you’ll regret it.”
I pull on my work shoes and step outside. Isla is standing on my porch, her arms crossed, her eyes in the general direction of my mom’s screams. She glances at me when I walk out. We’ve been very casually spending time together in the last few weeks. She comes over daily and walks with me to and from work. We smoke pot and she’s learning to surf. She’s a good chick, seems like she’s got it together.
I enjoy her company. Can’t say I’m fully into her, I’m not sure I have time to be fully into anyone right now, but she’s good to have around.
“Is she always like that?”
I walk down the front steps. Isla turns and follows me.
“She didn’t used to be. My dad left. She became a drunk, and now she’s on drugs. So, yeah, she’s always like that now.”
“I’m sorry,” Isla says, catching up to me. “My dad is an alcoholic. Me and my sister both get the worst of it. My mom is gone. Same as you, but the opposite parent.”
“Least you got a sister,” I mutter.
“She’s crazy and mental. I doubt it counts as having a support system.”
“Better than nothin’.”
“Yeah, I guess it is.”
We walk in silence until I reach the grill I’m working for. I have an eight hour shift tonight, and I’m praying for some fucking good tips, because I’m falling behind, and once I’ve paid rent this week, I don’t think we’ll have enough to eat. I hide what I can from Mom so she doesn’t buy alcohol, but she manages to get her hands on some of it.
I could take it away, but the backlash wouldn’t be worth it.
The abuse wouldn’t be worth it.
None of it would be.
“I’ll be there with a joint when you get off,” Isla tells me, her eyes flashing. “See you, Bohdi.”