Page 2 of Unmade

My chest felt tight, and I hated this so much. I didn’t wanna feel anything.

I hadn’t cried yet, and I was kinda hoping I could skip that part because I sensed it was going to be ugly.

In the back of my mind, I’d had the same fear running on a loop since Mom had told me she was terminally ill.

How are you gonna make it? You’re alone. You’re a damn mama’s boy who can barely boil an egg. You don’t like people, your job pays minimum wage, you didn’t make it to college, you can’t fucking do this.

I let out a shaky breath and rubbed at my chest.

Could I figure shit out in four months? That was when I’d run out of money.

I swallowed again, feeling nausea creeping upward, and I abruptly opened the closet and stepped inside. A big part of me wanted to peek between my fingers, but it was already too late. I was assaulted by Mom’s perfume and the sight of the family photos my aunt had stacked in here the other day.

Get it over with.

Armed with a roll of garbage bags, I started throwing belongings out of the closet. Keep, keep, throw out, throw out, throw out. Clothes, bedsheets, pictures, old drawings, photo albums… I tore open one box filled with my report cards, tests, and science projects from school. Next box, even older shit from when Grandma passed away.

I wanted to throw up.

You have nobody. You don’t belong anywhere.

I gnashed my teeth and felt my vision blur.

One day, I might regret getting rid of so much, but I just couldn’t bring myself to sort through item by item. I kept a small eagle figurine from my grandma. I remembered playing with it when I was little. A few random photos too. The rest ended up in a bag.

Another box. I got down on one knee, wiped some sweat off my forehead, and flipped open the lid.

What the hell?

It was an envelope addressed to me at the top. Mom’s handwriting.

I opened it and pulled out a note.

My sweet boy.

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.

I was terrified you might want to follow in his footsteps.

He accidentally left the business card behind.

I love you so much.

I’m sorry.

“What?” I mumbled.

I lifted a shoebox out of the bigger box and opened that too.

Follow in whose footsteps?

The shoebox didn’t have much in it at all. An old newspaper?—

Shit. A small card fell out when I picked up the newspaper.Thebusiness card. She’d mentioned a business card.

The Hillcroft Group.

There was something written in Latin below the logo. I turned it over and cocked my head. Someone had jotted down a name. Bo Beckett. Who the fuck was Bo Beckett? What the fuck was the Hillcroft Group?

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