Page 100 of Before We Were

Always has.

Always will.

But even as I picture her, I know it's fading. She can't know this version of me. She can't ever see me like this.

This is the beginning of something I can't control.

And I'm not sure I want to stop it.

Audioslave's"Be Yourself"fills the air, the opening notes haunting and slow, curling around me like an embrace. The sound penetrates deeper than just my ears—it's inside me, resonating in my bones. Each note vibrates against my skin, the music pulsing through my blood. The guitar solo hits electric, every chord sending shivers down my spine. The lead singer's voice cuts straight into my mind, and I feel the irony of every word. The highs, the lows—they're all part of me now, the drumbeat matching my heartbeat until I can't tell which is which anymore.

I open my eyes to find the stars blurring together, the night alive with an energy I can't explain. My head's swimming, but it's not unpleasant. It’s freeing, like I could drift away into the notes forever.

I'll never be like him.

The thought cuts through the fog, sharp and clear. A promise I've made before but never voiced. But as the music swells, filling every empty space inside me, I realize how hollow that promise is. Because deep down, I know I'm already too far gone. This is where it starts.

The spiral.

The addiction.

And with the music pounding in my head, I almost don't care anymore.

Being myself isn't an option.

I want to be anything but.

Weeks blur together,partly because I barely feel present anymore. True to my word, I'm spiraling. That much is clear. Showing up to school high becomes my new normal, and football practice?

A joke.

The bruises are too frequent now, too hard to explain away. Coach pulls me aside, looks me dead in the eyes, and asks what's going on.

I lie. I have to.

There's no way I'm telling him what happens behind closed doors, that my own father uses me like a punching bag when life gets too much for him.

So, Coach fucking calls him. Like that's going to do anything except make my life worse.

And it does.

I walk through the door that night, high and out of my mind. The tension hits me immediately, heavy like a noose tightening around my neck. Scott waits for me, seething, fists clenched at his sides. I hear Mom trying to stop him, playing peacemaker like always. But there's no peace to be found in this purgatory.

"Where the hell have you been?" Scott's voice is low, dangerous. He doesn't slur when he's like this. No, when it's not just the alcohol, he's sharp. Mean. Calculated.

"Oh, now you want to play the role of caring parent? You're ten years too fucking late, Dad."

"Nate, please??—"

It happens too fast.

He backhands Mom hard enough that I hear the crack before I see it. She stumbles back, clutching her face, and something inside me finally snaps.

"Don't fucking touch her." The words tear from my throat, shaking with pure hatred. I'm not scared of him anymore. I stopped being scared years ago.

Scott turns, bloodshot eyes locking onto me. "What did you just say to me, boy?"

"Hit someone your own fucking size."

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