Page 8 of The Road to Ruined

"It was bland and repetitive," I say. I grab the container of broth first, then my noodles and veggies, and bring them to the table. "Like they thought if the food was too exciting, we might all get riled up and attempt a coup or something."

"Teagan…" she scolds, shaking her head.

"I don't want to talk about Rancho San Flores. That's fair, right?"

"I think that's fair, Jennifer," my dad says.

"Thank you."

I brush my long, dark hair behind my shoulders before I begin shoveling food into my mouth.

"My god, Teagan," my dad says, repulsion evident in his tone.

"What? I'm hungry. This is my first post-prison meal."

"Patrick—" Mom starts.

"No, it's not that, it's…god, it's worse than I imagined." His lip turns up as he continues staring, but I'm still lost. "You were mychild. You've been mutilated."

My eyes drop to the deep scars on my chest, then back to the disgust on my father's face.

Refusing to cry, I bite my lower lip. "This is just what my body looks like now. All I want to do is eat my food and go to bed. Please? Can't I do that?"

"It is really hard to look at, Teagan," my mom adds. "You should go put a shirt on."

If they could see what this has done to me on the inside—if they could feel for five minutes what I've felt for months—they wouldn't spend another minute worrying about the scar tissue on my chest.

Not when the marks on my heart—on my soul—refuse to scar over.

"I'll just eat in my room." I almost choke on the words as I stand, push my chair in, and grab my bowl and chopsticks; neither of them stop me. "Thanks for dinner, Dad. Good night."

"Okay, good night," my mom says. "Your sister will be here at eleven tomorrow, so make sure you're ready."

"Ready for what?"

"Dress shopping."

I shoot her a puzzled look.

"Bridesmaid dresses, Teagan," she says. "If you want to be a part of the wedding, we need to get you a dress as soon as possible."

"Yeah, okay. I'll be ready."

I hold my breath until I get to my bedroom, closing and locking the door behind me. And there it is again—that painful tightening in my chest, the stinging behind my eyes.

Fifteen seconds. I'll give myself fifteen seconds to cry—just enough to take the edge off.

I set the food down on my desk, stand in front of my full-length mirror, and set a timer. Then, I brush my hair away from my shoulders again. I stare at the mutilated girl in the reflection, remembering how I thought this meant I was loved. But if I were loved, I wouldn't be alone, would I? I drop to my knees and weep.

But when the timer goes off, I stop, drying my eyes. I remember that I used to keep alcohol hidden in the bottomdrawer of my dresser. Assuming they haven't gone through my things, it should still be there. I feel around behind the clothes, relief washing over me when my hand closes around the neck of a glass bottle.

Ah, there it is.Cheap whiskey. Almost half a fifth.

I screw off the top and take a long, hard pull. And another.

I take the bottle with me to my desk, sit down, and eat my food. Then, I open my email.

14,912 New Messages.The number alone sends me into a spiral. My eyes quickly scan the unknown names and addresses of the most recent messages in my inbox, over subjects like "They're coming BACK," "DECLAN SPOTTED IN NEW YORK CITY," and "Teagan, I would do ANYTHING for you."

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