Page 47 of The Chemist

It had all started innocently enough. A simple comment followed by an innocent question. Something that any normal, well-adjusted bloke could have simply answered and moved on with his life. But not him. No. He was ten shades of fucked up and fifty ways of screwed in the head.

So here he was. Sitting alone on the roof of their rental, downing a bottle of whiskey at three a.m. Perhaps he would fall off the roof in a drunken stupor and break his neck. Hey, at leastwith all the alcohol he had consumed, he probably wouldn’t feel a thing.

Death by broken neck, what a way to end a worthless life.

Got any brothers or sisters?

Simple enough, right?

Nope. Not for him.

They had been enjoying a nice dinner, Jared, Zero, and Diesel—Chase was busy rummaging through the good doc’s trash can searching for clues—when Zero asked about Jared’s family. They were getting to know one another when Zero turned his attention to Diesel and asked the same question.

“So, what about you, D? Got any brothers or sisters?”

That was the last thing he remembered hearing before ending up on this roof nearly six hours later. He couldn’t remember what he started off with. Was it the beer or the shots? Whatever it was, it wasn’t strong enough. He walked down to the local shop and picked up two bottles of whiskey. One was currently keeping his bed warm downstairs, while the other was dangling between his fingers, grasping at its last few sips of life.

Siblings.What an innocent yet horrible thing.

Diesel downed another mouthful of the bitter liquid and felt his mind pull away from him.

The sound of people laughing blared through the television as the main character of the show did something stupid, which was apparently funny to all those watching. If they were even there. He thought he’d read somewhere that television studios used prerecorded sound bites while filming sitcoms. A fake studio audience. It made sense when you stopped to think about it. This way, the show was guaranteed laughs even if their writers didn’t have a funny bone in their body. Diesel didn’t get it. It sounded dumb and stupid and fake.

Kind of like this fake-ass family thing they had going on.

Sitting on the couch, his so-called mother was leaning into her pig of a husband. He didn’t understand what his mother saw in him. Was it the security of having someone take care of her? It wasn’t because he was a nice man. If anything, he treated her like dirt, and Diesel was pretty sure he was sleeping around with other women. But he couldn’t tell his mother that. She was too far gone in love with the man—seeing nothing but love and devotion for a man who didn’t deserve it.

It made him sick.

“I’m going to my room,” Diesel mumbled, getting up from his spot on the floor by the wall.Hisspot. Ever since the day he met his new “family,” the spot on the floor by the wall had become his. Most people had a favorite chair or side of the couch. No, not him. He had a… spot. That was it. A place far enough from the lumps of shit he called “family” but close enough that they wouldn’t complain that he was being antisocial or rude.

“Move your ass from the TV,” Bo, his stepfather, grumbled as he walked past and headed toward the bedroom that he shared with his younger brother.

Well, stepbrother. There was no relation or shared bond between them. The only thing they shared was a space to sleep.

“What are you doin’ in here?” a pissed-off pimple-faced ass greeted as Diesel walked into his room.

Diesel shut the door behind him and flopped down on his bed.

“Kiss my ass, douchebag,” Diesel responded, pulling his pillow in close to his chest.

He hated this fucking place. Only two more years until he turned eighteen, then he could get the fuck out of this godforsaken hellhole.

Closing his eyes, Diesel thought about where he would like to move to. Perhaps Scotland or Dublin. He heard that thoseplaces were a lot of fun, and he didn’t have to worry about learning another language. Or perhaps Belgium. Did they speak English in Belgium? He would have to check.

Two years ago, he started saving whatever cash he could find or earn, doing odd jobs like cutting Mrs. Jenkin’s lawn in the summer and shoveling Mr. Roger’s driveway in the winter. Whatever cash he could get his hands on, he tucked away into the loose floorboard next to his bed. Last he checked, he had about two thousand pounds saved up.

He knew that wouldn’t be enough to live off of, but it was enough to buy him a train ticket and a roof over his head for a few months—hopefully.

Banging on the front door made Diesel and his shit brother jump in their beds. They sat up and looked at each other, startled.

“What the fuck do you want?” Diesel heard his mother shout. Classy as always.

Diesel watched as his stepbrother jumped off his bed and headed toward their bedroom door. Diesel couldn’t give a shit about whatever drama was unfolding in their living room. Probably some pissed-off neighbor complaining about the volume of their TV or something.

“We’ve come to search the house,” they heard a male voice say coming from someplace in the living room.

“You’re not searching, shit!” his stepfather growled in that half-drunk tone they were all used to when it came to the evenings.

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