Page 89 of Kings Against the World

I climb off the couch and stagger toward the bathroom. The mirror catches my reflection and shows me a man with bloodshot eyes and flushed skin. I look a fucking mess and I know it as I wrench open the medicine cabinet and stare at the rows of pill bottles. All prescriptions. Mood stabilizers. Anti-psychotics. The things that are supposed to “fix” me. I snatch one, then another, then the rest, dumping them all into the toilet bowl.

The pills scatter—white, yellow, blue—like brightly colored candy against the porcelain. I laugh, woozy and bitter, as I flush them. They swirl along with the water and then disappear down the outlet in the toilet bowl.

The sound of the water as it rushes down the drain pulls me way back to a time in the past where I’d done this. Fifteen and fresh out of the doctor’s office with a shiny new bipolar diagnosis and a father who looked at me like I was both stupidandcrazy. He shoved those pills into my hand like they’d make me normal. I’d magically become the son he always wished for.

But I wasn’t interested in being the perfect son. Not under his thumb. Not in his house. Not after years of his bad temper and mood swings that left me and Mom walking on eggshells. So I flushed every last one down the drain. I left the empty pill bottles on the bathroom counter for him to find.

His episode of rage was worse than any episode I’d had.

His features contorted into a fucking red-faced demon. The veins in his neck protruded. He’d busted open the door in my room and it was on. I wasn’t backing down, which only made it worse. Unlike my mother, I didn’t cower and hide from his flying fists. I didn’t seek to appease him in any way.

Instead, I taunted him. I took the hits like a man. I gave as good as I could, still growing into my body and abilities. By the end of it, I had a busted lip, black and blue face, and a couple broken ribs.

But I still never took the fucking medication under his roof. Which meant I won. He didn’t break me and he couldn’t control me…

The whiskey sloshes in my gut as I stagger to my bedroom, hands twitching with restless energy. I need out of this trailer. Out of Pulsboro.

Somewhere far away where no one gives a shit if I’m a mess. I shove open the closet door and reach for my duffel bag on the top shelf. My fingers graze the edge when a cardboard box tumbles down, spilling its contents across the floor.

“Shit,” I mutter, dropping to my knees.

Old crap scattered everywhere—concert ticket stubs, patches from my first club jacket, a few Polaroids faded with time.

My high school yearbook.

“Fuck,” I mutter. “Now this is a throwback.”

I prop it open and thumb through the pages, finding familiar faces, half-forgotten stories. I snort when I land on Bobby Moore. Poor bastard pissed his pants in front of everybodyduring gym class junior year. Then there’s the time we hauled the principal’s desk onto the roof—still one of my finest moments.

I almost close it when the class superlatives page catches my eye.

There I am, featured among the others. It’s no surprise I was voted Class Clown.

My photo’s smack in the center, all cocky smirk and spiky gelled hair. Less ink on my skin, but a lip ring I thought was the coolest fucking thing at the time.

A corner of paper peeks out from the back of the book. I slide it free, discovering it’s a folded-up envelope, yellowed around the edges. My name’s scrawled across it in my father’s stiff handwriting.

My pulse kicks up. I don’t remember this. Why don’t I remember this?

I pull the folded-up letter from inside the envelope and stare down at the words. They rearrange themselves at first, a mix of the whiskey and dyslexia, before I blink and force myself to read:

Oswald—

By now, it’s become clear you can’t stay here. The havoc you’ve caused is too much for your mother, and I refuse to stand for it. We can’t live like this anymore. Our lives would be easier if you removed yourself from the equation.

Enclosed is five thousand dollars. It should be enough to get you started somewhere else.

Take it and don’t ever come back. As far as we’re concerned, we have no son.

This is what’s for the best.

My whole chest seizes, and for a second, I think I might hurl. The room tilts, and a hot, aching pressure crawls up my throat.

He wanted me gone. I didn’t leave because I chose to like I’ve spent the last decade telling myself I did—I left because I read this letter and realized it’s what they wanted.

For my entire adult life, I’ve told myself I made the choice. It was me who up and left, packing my shit and running off.

But it was at my father’s suggestion. He told me to leave and that I was no longer their son before I ever moved out.

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