Page 130 of My Debacle with De Lorenzo

“It’s not...it’s not punishment, Dana,” I say, the words cracking as they leave my mouth. I can’t even look at her as I uncurl her fingers. I can’t take seeing that look on her face, like I’ve betrayed her, like I’ve let her down again.

As soon as I get my T-shirt out of her grasp, my father quickly carries her down the stairs.

“Dylan! Dylan, please!”

It’s those screams that stay with me, those screams that stop me from sleeping for days afterward. The sound is shrill, laced with panic, filled with pain, and all I can think about is that’s how she must’ve sounded when she was calling for me. Those screams reinforce my guilt and my helplessness because I still can’t help her. Blistering hot tears simmer near the surface, but I don’t let them fall.

The front door is barely closed when my mother scurries toward her bedroom, stumbling over her own feet because she can’t get in there fast enough. The sound of the door slamming echoes through the hallway, and I hear her anguished cries before they’re muffled by a pillow.

I walk down the corridor to my bedroom. After flipping the sign toDo Not Disturb, I shut the door, pulling off my T-shirt as I walk straight to my punching bag. I don’t wrap my knuckles or put on my gloves because I want to feel my fists colliding with the stiff leather. I want to feel the brutal impact of each blow. I want to feel my hands bruising and my fingers going numb. I just want to feel a different kind of pain.

Blowing out a slow exhale, I give my arms a quick stretch before I start. I have a few days to sort myself out, push all of this into an isolated corner of my mind so I can function like a normal person when I see other people again. Normalcy – it’s somehow a foreign concept, yet at the same time, it’s all that I crave.

I want to live in a world where my sister never had to go through what she went through. I want to live in a world where my mother doesn’t have to hide her tears and put up a front all the time. I want to live in a world where I don’t have to pretend like I’m okay when I’m not. I just want everything to go back to normal, yet on nights like these it feels so distant and unattainable.

The hard, relentless thumps of my fists and my ragged breathing fill the room. It’s the sound of my rage taking over, the sound of me so desperately seeking solace that I tap out. It’s the familiar sound that signals the beginning of emotional hangover week.

17. Isabella

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