Page 53 of Wreck Me

I practically skipped to the bus stop like a little fucking girl. I was so excited to tell Isla that our luck may be turning around.

Don’t worry, I didn’t actually skip, but the way my heart flailed around my chest cavity with elation, I might as well have.

Not bothering to look inside the empty fridge when I got home, still full from splurging on a foot-long deli sandwich for lunch, I went straight to giving a few property managers a call and managed to set up three appointments for tomorrow to see some studios. Their rent cost was still out of reach for just my income, but if Isla was able to get a job and help with about a third of the rent, we would be able to make it. At that moment, things couldn’t have fallen into a better place, and I couldn’t wait to tell my girlfriend the good news.

Deciding to spend my last thirty minutes before she arrived doing something for me, I locked myself in the bathroom and gave myself a shave—even though I didn’t really need it—and took a hot shower. Somewhere in there, I lost all track of time, and because of my carelessness, Isla got hurt.

My dad still sat in the middle of the living room, on the disgusting, threadbare carpet, looking disoriented. He rubbed his hand across his face, watching me walk over to him through glossy, half-closed eyes.

Crouching down in front of him, I curled my fingers around the chest of his t-shirt and pulled him to me by the fabric. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” I barked, my voice so laced with venom I hardly recognized it myself. I was doing everything I could to stay level-headed, knowing Ineededanswers from this sorry excuse of a man.

My dad said nothing and grabbed my hand that held his shirt, clawing at it in an attempt to pull it off him. I refused to release him, ignoring the bite of his fingernails against my skin.

“Did youkillher? You killed mom?” my voice cracked on the last word, feeling an ache so deep in my heart I thought it was about to rip in two. So many questions swirled around my mind, so many memories of my mother and everything surrounding her leaving I’d buried deep inside. A rush of anger slammed into me, and I shook my bastard father with as much strength as I could. “TELL ME.”

My father grumbled incoherently, and despite the urgency I felt to get the answers, I knew tonight I would get none—he was too intoxicated, probably blacked out, at this point. Shoving him backward, I stood and stepped over his body as he faded out of consciousness on the floor. Curling my hands into fists at my side, I forced myself to leave him and get what I needed from my bedroom, not wanting to leave Isla outside for any longer than necessary. She was shaken up badly, and while I hated having to put her in the car and come back inside this house for a few minutes, it was the only option I had. Leading her to my bedroom wasn’t a choice for me: I didn’t feel like she was safe in my house.

I began throwing as much clothing as I could into my backpack, not caring if I wasn’t going to be able to zip it shut. The bag overflowed with clothes—everything I would need and want. I was never coming back to this house. Whatever fit, came with me, and whatever didn’t, I no longer considered mine.

Shoving my feet into my favorite pair of shoes, I reached into my nightstand and collected my phone and the charger, shoving them both into the front pocket of my backpack. Next was my wallet and house-keys, which I pushed into the pockets of my sweatpants before turning to the top of my dresser, picking up my textbooks and notebooks and tucking them beneath my arm. As best I could, I scooped up the stuffed backpack and cradled it under my other arm.

As I turned to leave, I stopped myself, remembering one of my most prized possessions. I couldn’t leave it behind. It was the last thing—the only thing—I had from my childhood.

Turning back toward my closet, I dropped everything I held onto the bed and moved to retrieve the shoebox sitting on the top shelf, housing trinkets from my childhood, and things that reminded me of my mom. Pulling it down, I picked everything back up and awkwardly carried everything through my bedroom door.

My father was, unsurprisingly, passed out on the floor when I exited my room. His mouth wide open, expelling small huffs of air as he slept soundly, as though he hadn’t just shattered a bottle above my girlfriend's head and then passed out.

And his words. A large part of me desperately wanted to believe what he said was just a drunken rant. A slurring of words that meant nothing—maybe he had been watching a horror movie earlier, and it lingered on his mind. My dad was a lot of things—a drunk, a jackass, neglectful—but was he really a murderer too? I couldn’t believe that.

I didn’t want to believe that. Because if it was true, then my dad took away the one person who had loved me unconditionally.

Glancing at him over my shoulder, I walked out of the house for the last time.

My eyes stayed glued to the front door of the house as I opened the door to the back seat of Isla’s car, tossing everything I owned into it. Shutting the door, I then opened the driver’s door and sank into the soft leather seat, closing it once I was situated inside, and started the ignition. The overhead light immediately turned off, casting us in darkness.

Reaching over, I took her icy hand in mine. “Are you okay?” I asked, knowing she wasn’t, but not knowing how else to break the silence. She stared out her window at the house and slowly nodded her head.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice small. I pulled her hand to my mouth and kissed the back of it before placing it back on her lap.

Turning to face forward, I flicked the headlights on before placing both hands on the steering wheel, grabbing it so hard I could see my knuckles turn white through the darkness. “I’m never fucking coming back to this house. He’s dead to me,” I growled angrily, more to myself than to her. The catastrophic gravity of the situation sat on my chest, making my head spin with questions and regrets.

Slamming my foot against the gas, the car shot forward and I drove to Isla’s apartment complex, away from the home I hoped to never see again.

* * *

When we pulledinto the parking lot of Isla’s apartment, I killed the engine before hopping out of the car and rounding it to the passenger side. Isla was still in shock. She had been quiet as a mouse the entire car ride—not like I was feeling very chatty myself. Pulling open her door, I leaned in and unlatched her seat belt, pulling her out of the seat to stand, before lifting her into my arms.

Instinctually, Isla’s arms and legs wound around me as I firmly held her and she buried her head against the crook of my neck. Ignoring the elevator, I ambled up the two flights of stairs with her in my arms, moving as quickly as I could to get her inside.

“I can walk,” she said against my neck, her warm breath tickling the sensitive spot.

“No.” Continuing up the last flight of stairs, the soles of my shoes stomped against the flooring and echoed in the stairwell. Once I made it to her floor, I rounded the corner and repositioned the keys in my right hand, feeling for the simple key to unlock her door.

I wasn’t willing to let her go just yet, so I pinned her against the door, pressing my body firmly against hers so I could wrestle with the lock. Moving us inside, I kicked the door shut behind me and moved through the dark, bringing her into the bathroom, where I flicked on the light and sat her down on the closed lid of the toilet seat.

She looked up at me and I dropped to my knees, cupping her face in my hands as I inspected her. Tilting her head from left to right, I let out a shaky breath, relieved to see no shards of glass in any of her cuts. Thankfully, they weren’t deep, and with a thorough cleaning, I was confident she’d heal quickly.

I pulled open the drawer where I knew her washcloths were and ran one under warm water, squeezing the excess out before bringing it to her face, lightly cleaning away the dried blood and mascara that had made its way down her cheeks. She winced slightly as I rubbed the washcloth against the wound.

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