Page 7 of Careless

“Fuck off, man. I’m having fun.” Finn growls at my look of annoyance, like the big old grouch he is before snorting the coke off her stomach.

It’s not a secret why girls come to our house. They come here to get screwed. Well, every girl except for Sorcha. We’re not the kind of men you take home to meet the parents. We’re the kind that fuck hard and fast, giving the girls memories to dwell on for years. Too bad we typically give them only one ride, even if they come back begging for more.

Not my problem.

I pay them no mind and head straight for my room, closing the door behind me. I pace, burning the rubber from my shoes into the tarnished wood. I try like hell to think of something other than the beauty who plagues most of my thoughts. I groan as I give my head a few hard whacks with my fist. I want her out of my head, but I know it’s impossible. She’s been tattooed on my brain since we were kids, and there’s only one thing that vanished her temporarily, but I can’t think about it here. Thinking about it makes me break things and crack skulls.

* * *

I chargeinto the makeshift gym I built behind my dad’s place. It’s sheets of corrugated steel barely held together by bolts, and it contains all of my darkest thoughts—my trauma brain physically manifested.

Dirt and dust particles dance in the rays of sunlight that bleed from between the cracks of the makeshift walls. The ground is compacted dirt except for random blades of grass that cultivated from a pointless place, devoid of any other life or possibilities, only to be stomped on when the blade finally reaches the sun. The sandbag I hung from an arch I built, sways slightly, hundreds of photos cover the walls.

This is the place I go to escape Sorcha, and Sorcha is where I go to escape this place.

Memories assault me as I hastily rip the shirt over my head, throwing it to the ground.

“Hey, Mom,” I growl at the photos before hurtling punch after lethal punch into the sandbag.

“That’s my boy.”

My mother’s voice filters into my mind as my jaw tenses. She was such a selfish cunt. What the fuck was so horrible about our life that she had to hang herself in the bathroom? Did she not care that I would be the one to find her?

She had no reason to leave us. My dad loved her, I fucking loved her, and she left us.

Selfish. Ungrateful. Evil.

She knew we needed her, and she didn’t fucking care.

Rumors were plentiful and circulated unheeded throughout our town as to why she did it. A contender for most popular is that maybe being the wife of a Walsh was too much for her. Honestly, I don’t remember much about her relationship with my dad, but I remember her smile. How can someone be sad when they smiled so fucking much?

The sound of her laughter breaks through my thoughts, tinkling like a wind chime, as my fist slams harder into the bag, tears drenching my face.

I recognize that anger is an easier emotion to feel than grief. I can understand why she did what she did. This is a crappy life, its only for those not faint of heart and my mother was fragile. She could smile bigger than anyone I’ve ever met and cry a river of tears in a five-minute span.

Thinking of my mother always grounds me and reminds me exactly why I can never have Sorcha Rae O’Reilly. She’s meant for a better life, and all I would do is screw her up like my dad did my mom.

The Bastards are toxic and I am, in deed, a bastard.

CHAPTERTHREE

HER

The gray tile is cold against my forehead as I rest against it, eyes closed and my breathing in the heavy air. The boiling water runs in rivulets down my face, streaming into my nose and seeping into my mouth. My tears only add to the tributaries, as if in tandem, agreeing to do their best to drown me. It’s doing little to extinguish the sharp needles stabbing at my brain. Every second is pain, and I try to block it out, but sooner or later, all the self-doubt, body shame, and my failures come to the surface, and I can’t fight it anymore.

Why was I born like this? Why couldn’t I be like all the other girls? Girls like Francine. She’s so nice and everyone loves her, but she doesn’t struggle like I do. Whispers of hateful words swirl around me whenever I look at my reflection in the mirror. Words uttered by friends and family. I fight and fight every day, all day long, and for what? For a doctor three times my age to tell me I’ve gained weight and I must be doing something wrong. I eat right. I exercise every free minute I have, and still, I have nothing to show for it.

Screw this pity party. I’m not giving up. I’m an O’Reilly, which means I come from a long line of fighters. I’m not going to just roll over and accept defeat.

I switch off the water and gingerly climb out. Haphazardly, I dry off then throw on my jogging pants and sports bra. Twisting my hair into a ponytail, I manage to sneak out of the house with Dad passed out on the couch.

My feet pound the pavement as I run as fast and as hard as I can. I take a sharp right onto an unpaved path; the dirt kicks up and hits my back as I run, but I ignore the light sting.

I will not yield. I’m a fighter, a Bastard, a true warrior. I will work hard to get what I want.

Jet black hair and icy blue eyes flash in my mind and my heart speeds up. Rian. That’s my only unattainable desire. No matter how hard I fight, I will never win, and that has to be okay. I can fantasize and dream about him all I want, and know in the morning that at least he’s in my life in some sort of capacity.

Sometimes there are fights where you have to be satisfied with being second place.

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