Page 8 of Under the Texas Sky
Of fucking course.Just another thing I’ve fucked up.
Not waiting for them to walk in and see the disaster I've made and how I've ruined Mitch’s project, I run to the bedroom and lock the door behind me. Throwing myself on the bed, I barely manage to hold in the scream that wants to erupt from my mouth in a violent spew of anger. Rage. Fury.
I want a drink. Ineeda drink to help this overwhelming sensation go away. It’s the only thing that can make it disappear, if even for a little bit.
I hear footsteps in the living room, the sounds so similar to the pounding in my temple. What I would give right now to disappear, for them to not see me as the fuck up I am–the fuck up I’ve always been. I can’t change. I don’t know why I everthought I could. Because at my core, I'm no different than I was a week ago. A month ago. A year ago. A decade ago. I’m still the piece of shit, with a piece of shit mom and stepdad who isn’t going anywhere in life.
“Trent?” A tentative knock comes from the other side of the door, and I have to bury my face farther into the pillow so I don’t do something stupid. Like fucking cry.
“Trent, can you open the door? Please?" Kian doesn’t sound mad–he never sounds mad. Only disappointed, disgusted, upset. All of the things that are worse coming from him than anyone else I've ever known.
I can take physical pain. I took it for years and never made more than a peep. The mental pain is worse though. It's a parasite, sucking my life essence out until I'm nothing but a hollow shell begging for someone to put an end to my misery.
Hearing the doorknob jiggle slightly, I know he’s trying to pick the lock. The stupidly smart motherfucker he is… he doesn’t know when to quit.
“Go away, Kian. I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t care. I'm coming in whether you open the door or I open it myself,” he asserts. Because he’s also stubborn, headstrong in what he wants, and he doesn’t let anything or anyone stand in his way. Even if he’s awkward while doing it.
The lock clicks, but I don't make a move to get up, letting the hot air of my own breath cover my face. With a dip of the bed, I feel Kian’s warm body pressed against mine, his floral scent invading my senses.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“It’s fine, Trent. It was just a puzzle.” He runs his nimble fingers through my hair. A comforting feeling settles in my bones. I don’t deserve his kindness.
“It’s not just the puzzle.”
It's everything, I want to scream. But my mouth isn’t capable of forming the words, the four syllables colliding and shifting things around in my head.
This is about so much more than just what’s going on now. And I don't know how to tell him that. How can I tell him that, after all these years, doubts and negative thoughts still plague me? They still haunt my dreams and every waking moment. They’re always there in the back of my mind. Waiting for me to mess up something so they can prove, once again, that I'm nothing.
“Talk to me,” Kian says. “I won't understand what’s going on if you don’t tell me.”
Doesn’t he get that I can't tell him? He won’t understand. He goes through life with rose-colored glasses, seeing the bright side of every situation, the best intentions in every person. And he’s just sohappy.
Making Kian happy has always been my number one priority, but lately I’m afraid I can’t.
CHAPTER 8
TRENT
12 years old
The electricity flickers on and off in the kitchen, the bright light dimming and brightening so fast it’s starting to give me a headache. Or maybe it’s the math lesson I’m working on right now. Either way, both things are a pain in my ass I wish I didn’t have to deal with.
Mom’s passed out on the couch, the bright red cherry of her cigarette burning a little too close to the couch for comfort. Oh well, not my problem if she burns the trailer house down. It wouldn’t be the first time her bad decisions have ruined my life, and it won’t be the last.
Mom’s husband, mylateststepdad, walks in. His large, imposing frame takes up the entire entryway. He attempts to drop his keys into the fancy bowl I picked up from Goodwill to make our house look more like a home, but instead of landing in the glass bowl they fall to the floor, the resoundingclingechoing off the walls.
I brace myself, knowing what’s coming. In the six months my mom has been with Don, it’s been the same ritual. If he’s in a good mood, he leaves me the fuck alone. But if one thing sets him off, he’ll detonate and destroy the whole house.
His glare travels from my mother to me, and I act without thinking. I stand up, and walk from the small kitchen to standin front of her body on the couch. I don’t know why after all these years I’m still trying to protect her. She never protects me, the only thing she cares about is getting drunk or high. But still, my childlike mind remembers the time when she wasn’t high on Christmas, and she worked at a small gas station and saved up enough money to buy a Christmas tree. There weren’t any presents under it, but I pretended that there were. Sitting beside it and pretending to open gifts for hours,oohing and ahhingat every single make believe one.
Don snaps me out of my memory, with a back hand slap to my face. Pain explodes in my jaw and I bite my tongue, the fresh taste of copper flooding my mouth.
“Get out of my way,” he snarls, the stench of stale beer washing over my face and causing nausea to churn in my belly. His pupils are dilated, the blackness overtaking his usual blue eyes. He’s high as a kite, and he’s been drinking. The fresh track marks on his arms catch my attention, but quickly I take my focus off them. Last time he caught me staring he threatened to shoot me up with whatever he had. I doubt he would, because he always bitches about how much it costs, but I guess at a certain point addicts just don't care anymore.
“I won’t let you hurt her,” my voice cracks, wavering under his deadly gaze. I’m trembling, but I ball up my fists and refuse to back down. I can’t take him in a fight, but maybe he’ll go down quicker with all the shit he has in his system.
