Page 32 of Tied

By the time I had gone through countless burn treatments, skin grafts, and other horrific shit I’d rather not think about, school was no longer a priority for me. My chance of getting an athletic scholarship was gone. Most of my so-called friends had gone MIA, one of them taking my girlfriend with him.

Good riddance, assholes and bitches.

Friends were overrated anyway, once morphine became the love of my life.

Pre-fire, I worked out five days a week and ran every morning. I ate lean and clean. I meditated and did yoga. I had a fewbeers and got stoned maybe once or twice a month with friends to unwind. My body and my mind were my ticket to everything I wanted in my future: athletic success, inspiring others, and an equally beautiful and healthy partner to share life with.

At seventeen, I had a clearly defined path mapped out for myself, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way. I had watched my father struggle to pay bills and work his ass off seven days a week at the motorcycle shop he’d owned for twenty years. Pop had a lot of biker friends, and if they needed something, he was there. That included fixing their bikes for free because that’s what bikers do. It’s one big family. That shit didn’t pay the bills, though, and I refused to follow in his footsteps. I’d let my brothers do that. Me? I was getting out of this town, population of twelve hundred.

Raising the bottle of whiskey to my lips, I welcome the burn as it seeps down my chest and into my gut, recalling, with equal bitterness, how I left the hospital with a flicker of hope and a handful of prescriptions. Hope soon took a back seat to an addiction that had crept up on me slowly, obliterating my plans.

My physical scars were easy to see, splayed out across my flesh for people to stare at, back away from, and question endlessly. The scars on the inside, though, managed to go unnoticed as they snaked through me like poison.

A tall, lanky kid approaches me where I’m perched on a fence post thirty feet away from the crowd of college kids drinking, dancing, and making out. He wouldn’t be coming over here in the dark unless he had good reason, so I know he’s the one I’ve been waiting for.

“You Ty?” he asks nervously, his eyes scanning the area like he expects the police to jump out of the shadows.

“Well, I ain’t Mickey Mouse.”

He pushes his silver-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Jimmy sent me to hook you up.”

I take a pull off my drink. “Yay for Jimmy,” I say sarcastically. “Whaddya got, Waldo?”

He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a clear plastic bag filled with weed, pills, and a small vial of coke.

“How much?”

“Eight hundred.”

Without much regret, I pull out a wad of cash. Some worked for, some stolen. “Guess I won’t be eating for a while,” I say, handing almost all of it over to him.

He double-checks my count. “Or you could just not do drugs.”

Laughing, I snatch the bag from him and cram it down the front of my jeans. “Not exactly good advice coming from a dealer. Don’t they teach you marketing in college?”

“I only sell it. I don’t do it.”

I jump off the fence and give him a friendly smack on the back. “Do yourself a favor and don’t do either.”

Too tired to find a girl drunk enough to go down on me, I ditch the party and head for my car, parked on a dark, dead-end street. On my way, I spot a lone girl leaning against a car in front of Jimmy’s house, her face in her hands, crying. As I get closer, I realize it’s Wendy.

Lighting up a cigarette, I saunter over to her. “Whatsa matter, Wendy? Karma biting your ass?” I slur.

“Fuck off, Tyler,” she lashes out, wiping away the snot that’s running from her nose. Two years ago, I thought she was one of the prettiest girls in school. Somewhere along the line she lost her glow, and a dull version of my first crush stands sniveling in her place.

Cradling her chin in my palm, I lift her face toward thestreetlight to see the purple and blue discoloration on her cheek and the beginnings of a black eye.

“Don’t touch me.” She jerks her face out of my hand and looks down at the ground between us. “Get away from me.”

“You still can’t look at me, can you, Wendy?” I ask, leaning closer to her, my body inches from hers. “Do I make you that sick?”

She lifts her head, and her cold gaze flits from my eyes to the mottled flesh that runs across half my forehead and down the side of my face. Gulping, she closes her eyes and turns her head away.

“You’re drunk and probably high, Ty.Thatmakes me sick.”

“Then look at me.” I rest one hand on the car door next to her. “Look at me like you used to.”

Still looking away, she tries to melt into the car door in an effort to put more distance between us. “I can’t, okay?” she says defiantly. “It skeeves me out. Are you happy now?”

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