“It’s my fault too,” I manage to choke out. “I fucked up like I always do.”
The orange, setting sun fills the room. I want to leave, not just this room or this house. I want to go home, back to my life in America. I love Ireland, but I want to run. I want to leave this place far behind me and never look back. I tried once before, and it worked, but now, I find myself in the same position, feeling the same way.
Leaving my brother standing in the living room, I walk upstairs, ready to climb into bed, every step difficult. My feet stomp and slide against each of the steps up the staircase. I’m falling apart the higher I go. I’m walking down the hallway, ready to go back to the tiny room Charlotte and I once shared, but when I pass my old bedroom, the door still propped wide open, I stop.
I’m standing in the doorway, staring into the space where Charlotte once was. My eyes move to my old bed. The sheets are still ruffled and pushed off to the side. I can still feel her here, and the longer I stare, the more I feel her slowly disappearing. My eyes roam across the bed, then to my nightside table before landing on my old Boondock Saints poster.
With hooded eyes, I stare into Norman Reedus’ eyes. Like me, he’s an imposter. He was pretending to be a person he wasn’t. I feel betrayed, lied to. I hear Charlotte’s voice ringing in my head like a melody, telling me Norman was from Florida. Fucking Florida.
I clench my fists and stomp through the threshold into my room. I step up onto my bed, the mattress dipping under the weight of my feet. Reaching for the top of the poster, I stare into Norman Reedus’ eyes. I think about Claire. I think about Charlotte. And I think about how Norman is a fecking liar. Just like me.
Without another thought, I rip the poster from the wall.