Page 32 of Shattered

Until he didn’t.

Until I would wake up and he wouldn’t be there anymore.

It was when I was fifteen that I pulled the wool away from my eyes and looked at the big open world in front of me. And realized what Bexley had been doing since we were twelve years old.

Bexley was one of the biggest drug dealers in our area.

Despite his involvement in drugs, fighting, insomnia, he battled with, he gave up everything to improve my life. When I found out, I begged him to stop. I said he could go back to school, but it was too late. Dark shadows framed his sunken crystal eyes as they stared back at me. An altered version of myself that bore no resemblance to me. While his cheeks were hollow and sank inwards, I had full cheeks and a defined jawline.

Bexley’s skeletal frame was concealed by loose, oversized clothes and his skin had a grayish, ashen hue.

How come it took me so much time to fully grasp the reality of what was happening to my brother, my best friend, right in front of me all along?

It all started with drug dealing at twelve.

At the age of fifteen, the drug dealing came to an end.

That’s when the addiction took over.

After that, I paid more attention and noticed things. I found out about the Bexley situation and connected the dots. How did Bexley successfully skip going to school? The school wouldn’t have allowed that. But they would allow it if the doctor approved.

Upon learning about Bexley’s drug dealing, my mom not only found a source for herself but also someone who could supply her with an unlimited amount of drugs and alcohol. However, Bexley’s operation was only of a small magnitude. My mom needed him to be bigger.

While my mom was unconscious on the living room floor after a wild night, I stumbled upon the doctor’s note while rummaging through the drawers.

Anxiety.

Bexley was diagnosed with severe social anxiety by the doctor, who suggested homeschooling as a solution. The doctor unknowingly did exactly what my mom wanted.

He’s like this because of her.

A drug addict because of her, and I’ll never forgive her.

Shortly after that moment of realization, I dedicated myself to my studies. I couldn’t bear to look at her, let alone be near her. With no money for college, I realized a scholarship was my only option for escape. Yet, my scholarship was largely determined by my dedication to hockey.

I scrub my hands over my face, wishing I could scrub away this tiredness and guilt, but I know I won’t be able to, no matter how much I try.

“You good?” Cope’s voice causes me to twist my neck to catch a glimpse of him sitting on the edge of his bed, appearing as though he just woke up.

“Yeah.” I stretch and turn in bed, grabbing my phone after unplugging it.

“You were saying some crazy things in your sleep last night.” He laughs, getting up and heading to the bathroom.

“What was I saying?” I frown. Hoping it wasn’t anything about Bex. All my teammates obviously know about him, but I don’t want them knowing how he treats me. How much he lets me down.

Cope goes piss with the door open, speaking to me through the open door.

“You weren’t speaking in complete sentences. Just random words, that made no sense.”

“Fuck knows.” I sigh, making out I have no idea what it was about. He doesn’t know that Bexley’s petrified face is a replay in my mind as the water swallowed him whole. I unlock my phone, open Instagram, and mindlessly flick through stories onvarious Instagram accounts. On most days, I mindlessly browse through their stories without paying attention, using it as a visual distraction.

When I check my notifications, I see numerous likes on my stories from yesterday and a couple of new followers. While scrolling, I notice that @thestilestman has viewed my story again. I click on the following videos and notice that he has viewed all of them. A strange mix of excitement and anticipation slithers through me, my lips tip up in a half smile. With a forced frown, I express my irritation at the screen as my mind unexpectedly reacts with happiness.

He’s my teacher. That’s it.

But do teachers gaze at you the way Mr. Stiles did yesterday?

I hate intrusive thoughts sometimes; he wasn’t looking at me in any kind of way. I don’t think, anyway.

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