Page 63 of The Love of My Next Life
“I hate you,” she hisses again, wiping tears from her face. “He should press charges and send you to prison.”
Her eyes are full of hatred. The same I saw in my father’s eyes a few hours ago. The same I see in mine every morning.
“Why can’t you just die,” she whispers. “Everyone would be better off.”
The words hit how she intended. Right in the middle of my chest. Low in my stomach. And the voice in my head, the one that tells me all the time what a fuck-up I am, repeats them.
My gold-star father has said more than once that I’m the reason our family is fucked. Couldn’t stay out of trouble, even as a kid. A bad seed or whatever. Suspensions starting in first grade. Failing tests. Fighting kids twice my size and getting my ass beat. Being held back a year.
He was always such a dick to me because I was an embarrassment to his Ivy League education. Time-outs didn’t work. Insults didn’t work. Hitting me didn’t work. Locking me in my room for entire weekends didn’t work.
Instead of falling in line, I lashed out harder.
Something in me is broken. Something crucial, and I don’t know how to fix it.
Now he has a new family.
If it weren’t for me, Mom wouldn’t have to work so hard. Claire wouldn’t be such a bitch. She’d have her college paid for. I’m fucking everything up without even trying.
Claire’s sinister laugh pulls me from my thoughts.
“You’re un-fucking-believable,” she chokes out. “Screw you, Macon.”
She stalks to her car without another word and drives off toward Lennon’s house. And fuck, I can’t even let her have that. I’ll ruin that relationship, too, because I can’t stay away. I never could.
I walk inside and the house is silent. I go searching for Mom and find her on the back patio with her head in her hands, her shoulders shaking.
My fault. My fault. My fault.
I go to her, to hug her, to apologize, but when she hears me coming, she sits upright and her eyes fall on my bruised jaw, my split and swollen lips. Her face scrunches, and she lets out a sob.
“Oh, Macon,” she cries, then drops her face back into her hands.
I don’t say anything. I just back away and go straight to my room and lock the door. I dig through the top drawer of my dresser until I find one loose oxy, but it’s not enough. It never will be enough.
“Fuck.” I ball my fists and press them into my eyes. Tug at my hair to feel anything other than this fucking desperation. “Fuck!”
I pop the pill in my mouth and swallow. I try to imagine it working. Try to summon the numb. But nothing happens.
I squeeze my eyes shut against the sting, breathe through my nose against the failure.
The first time he hit me replays in my head. The first time he kicked me when I was down. The first time he grabbed my arm so hard it left a bruise in the shape of his hand. The crack of bone. The barrage of hissed insults and threats.
The look on Mom’s face when she found the bruises on my side and stomach.
The way she cried when she learned they didn’t happen at school. That it wasn’t an accident that broke my wrist.
The way she blamed herself.Why didn’t you tell me? How did I miss this? How could I let this happen? I’m sorry, Macon. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.
I put my hands to my head and press hard on my temples.
I don’t want to see the argument again. I don’t want to see him hit her again. I don’t want to remember packing our things in the middle of the night, moving to a shitty motel, dealing with Claire’s wails.
She was always a daddy’s girl.
I took that from her.
My stomach churns with the need to vomit, but I don’t want to lose the only oxy I have. I can’t lose the numb.
