Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91560 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 458(@200wpm)___ 366(@250wpm)___ 305(@300wpm)
It still is by the time I pull up and put the car in park in front of my house. My father’s house—it hasn’t felt like mine in years. Not since…
If my heart pounds much harder, it’s going to burst out of my chest and paint the inside of my car. For one brief but very real moment, I sort of wish it would. I don’t want to go through this anymore. I’m tired of it, tired from it. How long can a person carry a burden before it becomes too much to endure?
And how long ago did I reach that point? Because right now, sitting in my car and absolutely certain I’m going to die here, I have to wonder if I’ve already reached my breaking point. I have to wonder if it’s not already too late for me.
I don’t know what to do with everything buzzing in my head, making my stomach churn. It’s too much, I can’t breathe. There’s something sitting on my chest.
“Mom! Didn’t you hear me? I need your help!” I can hear myself in my head: selfish, immature, a complete brat. Demanding Mom jump when I snapped my fingers. Over what? Oh, right. The fucking protein bars I couldn’t find in the pantry.
Like I needed something else to add on top of what Tucker’s kiss did to me. It’s like I’m falling apart. I don’t know who I am. I can’t trust my thoughts. I can’t trust the things I want. I can’t trust myself anymore, a thought that is completely terrifying and goes well with how cold I am inside. Always.
There’s one small ray of light in the middle of all this darkness: Dad’s car is gone. I can sip a little more air into my lungs through the pinhole my throat has closed into. I don’t have to face him and his pretenses. The way he goes overboard, acting like I’m the most precious thing in his world. Especially with Mom gone. I’m all he has, or so he says.
Most people would consider themselves blessed to live in a house like this. I never really did appreciate it back when Mom was alive. When I could feel things; when I was a whole person. I was too young and stupid, for one thing, not to mention how normal it all seemed. Everybody I knew lived the way I did, so there was nothing special about it. Nothing to be grateful for. There are so many reasons why I wish I could go back and strangle that younger version of me. The insufferable little brat.
I’m still holding onto the steering wheel so tightly that my fingers ache so I slowly uncurl them. I should get inside and in bed before he gets home, even if I’m not really tired, even if it’s still pretty early. I would rather lie in bed all night wide awake than run the risk of seeing him. How much of my life have I wasted coming up with ways to avoid him? How much of my time is spent living around him, in spite of him? It’s depressing—and maybe I would be depressed if I was capable of feeling anything.
Instead, I walk blindly up the front steps and use my key to unlock the door. There is something satisfying about the sound of my footsteps in the large, high-ceilinged entry. It’s like the house is hollow—the way I feel inside. The house understands. The house was the only other witness to Mom’s death.
The thought makes me move faster, almost running up the stairs like I can outrun the past. There’s no such thing. I can’t forget it. I can’t change it. I can’t handle it. It’s too much.
At the same time, I feel like I’m screaming into the biggest, thickest pillow imaginable. It doesn’t matter how hard I scream or how loud. How much my throat hurts, how I exhaust myself. There’s no sound. Just like there’s no feeling.
And I need to get rid of it somehow. I need to be free so I can breathe. So I can exist. By the time I reach my bedroom, I’m not running anymore. I’m flying, throwing myself into the room, slamming the door and flipping the lock, savoring the sound.
That doesn’t mean I can breathe or that the pressure in my head goes away. There’s only one thing that will help me now, and I stumble for the bathroom, barely flipping on the light before reaching the vanity in three almost drunken steps. I’m falling apart. I feel it; I know it. It has to stop. I have to end it.
Reaching into the back of the bottom drawer, I feel around until my fingers close over a small packet tucked behind a box of tampons. No chance of them being found by Dad where I hid them. The weight in my hand, light as it is, brings me a measure of peace. I know what to expect. I know what I need to do.