Page 13 of Colt
“Did you know that Allison got a concussion?” I don’t know why I say that. Except I’m tired of everybody looking at me like I’m an object of pity, and it felt like it might be nice to spread some of that around. Though I can feel flames burning into the side of my face from the intensity of her gaze. I don’t even haveto look at her to know that she’s wishing I had met a painful end in that arena.
“What?” Jim is immediately crossing the room and moving toward her, and my mom isn’t far behind.
“I’m fine,” she says. “I fainted in the cafeteria yesterday. It’s not a big deal. They didn’t even admit me.”
“Why didn’t you call?” Jim asks.
“Because I didn’t need anything. They just didn’t want me to go back home and sleep in the apartment by myself. But I’m here, in a hospital. There isn’t a safer place to be.”
I can tell that she’s ready to throttle me, but I’m kind of enjoying it. I don’t need to be the bearer of everyone’s concern. But it’s ridiculous, and I hate it.
“It’s not a big deal, and he’s just trying to deflect.”
“Well, I hate to hog all the attention.”
She gives me a murderous glare, and then stalks from the room, Jim on her heels.
“She’s so difficult.” I make a very sympathetic face at my mother, as if I can only offer my condolences for how much of a pain her stepdaughter is.
My mom is staring down at me, and I can see that she’s not amused by the fact that Allison and I are having conflict. But honestly, what else is new?
Allison and I are oil and water. Have been, will be, always.
“You should’ve texted me about her,” Mom says.
“Sorry. I was busy being wounded.”
Mom rolls her eyes upward, like she’s annoyed at God for giving her all of us kids. “I don’t know what to do with any of you.”
“Gentry is fine,” I say.
“He’s out on a fire,” she says. “Which is the one reason he’s not here. And I have to worry about him the whole time he’s doing that. I didn’t think I had to worry about Allison.”
“Yeah, out of the three of us, she’s definitely the one least likely to encounter a workplace injury.”
Of course, I may never actually do my work ever again. It might be over. I might be over. Done. Finished. Who can say? I can’t take that on board. I never won. Noteverything. Not like Dallas, who won the championship last year, and I was sure… I was sure that this was my year. It’s probably going to be Maverick Quinn, which makes me want to commit a murder, because that guy is a prick of the highest order, and I don’t have any patience for his bullshit, much less him winning anything.
And I definitely didn’t aim to retire at twenty-five, with so much left to do. It makes my gut churn with rage. That feeling of being out of control. That feeling of helplessness. That maybe wanting something isn’t enough to make it happen. That working as hard as I fucking can isn’t going to be sufficient here.
It’s bullshit, is what it is.
“Has anyone come and talked to you today?”
I shake my head. “If they did, I was asleep. These pain meds are killing me.”
“Do you want them to stop giving them to you?”
“I’d like to taper off. I don’t want…”
I’m overwhelmed by everything I don’t want.
Again, I am completely overtaken by the unfairness of it all. Here I am, pumped full of drugs, which I’ve avoided all my life, because I’m doing my best to be better than my dad. To be someone that I can be proud of, even if I’m not a Boy Scout or anything.
“We can talk to the doctor about that today,” my mom says.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’d like that. I just… I want to get out of here. I need to get out of here.”
“Hopefully, you can. Soon. But not at the expense of your safety.”
