Page 9 of Won't Let Go
Focusing on art is my only semi-sane way of coping. Torturing Josh is another. I hum to"Bye, Bye, Bye," knowing the loud music is making his ears bleed, as I draw an old-school banner on my sketch pad. Sure, most of us artists these days use a tablet for our work, but there’s just something about doing it this way. It almost feels like high school all over again, sitting here in my room, drawing, listening to the same stuff I did back then. I was a loner—the Goth kid who didn’t fit in with the jerks in my tiny school in the middle of a cornfield, where football was God, and girls who weren’t skinny, blonde, and preppy were ridiculed.
That seems like forever ago.
I have a teenager now and a job, doing something I love. I have friends that I consider family, and I have Josh, the thorn in my side. Theoretically, all that should make me happy. All of that should make me want to live, not kill myself. But it’s just not that simple. Nothing ever is.
Spitting the chewed-up pencil onto my black comforter, I finish the drawing before I toss the pad to the side and flop back onto my stack of pillows.
What now?
Besides numbness.
I suppose the numbness is good. It beats the anger or the sadness. It beats the haunting memories that pop up whenever they please. Last week in the grocery store, I got a whiff of cured meat, and suddenly, I’m back there, on the table, in that room with them—the men who made me this way. Other times, I’m fine. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time in over a year, except in the hospital, when my body didn’t give me a choice. I miss sleep. I miss happiness and hope. I miss waking up in the morning excited to see my son and Loretta, who, without fail, would drop by for coffee every day. It’s been over a year since she’s done that. I miss visiting the Sacred Sinners’ compound and hanging with the sisters.
There’s a tap on the door. When I don’t respond, because Josh shouldn’t even be here, I wait for him to walk away. But he doesn’t. Another tap leads to another, and the noise grows in intensity. When the music switches to LMFAO, I hear Josh’s hopeless groan through the door.
For a moment, I consider getting up to make sure he’s okay. To talk to him. But it’s easier this way. It’s easier for us both. The quicker he gets tired of me, the quicker he’ll move on with this stupid white knight routine and do what any young adult shoulddo. Party. Have sex. Ride his motorcycle. Not babysit a broken, single mother, a decade his senior.
But he’s always been like this. Too caring.
It shouldn’t be a fault, I get that, but it’s to his detriment. With a wild mom like Loretta, he never had a normal childhood. He was too busy protecting her from the shitbags she brought home or making her breakfast after a wild night at the compound. He’s always been eager to help, eager to please. He’s also stubborn to a fault. Most people never see that side of him, but I do. Which is why I hoped he wouldn’t join the club, and he'd go off to college instead. Somewhere far away. Somewhere, he could soar, not be stuck in the same town he grew up in, surrounded by the same people he’s known his whole life. Sure, there’s comfort in that, but there are shackles, too. He made his choice forever ago, and Hunter is following right along in his footsteps. They’re damn near carbon copies of each other, apart from their looks.
There’s a rough jiggle of my knob, and my door bursts open a second later with a winded Josh, welcoming himself inside.
“Don’t lock your fucking door,” he growls, marching over to my speaker, picking it up, pushing the button to shut down the music, and tucking it under his arm.
“Mind your business. That’s mine,” I snarl, eyeing the meddlesome thief.
“You are my business, and I’ve had enough of this shitty music for the day.”
“Then I guess that means you should probably leave then.” I put my hand out for him to give me my speaker. When he stands at the foot of my bed and doesn’t hand it over, I snap my fingers. “Josh. Give it.”
“No.” He huffs. “I’m keeping this for now.”
What a stubborn asshole.
I lean up on my elbows. “This is my house.”
“Tough shit. I made you dinner. Come eat.” He turns and marches out of my bedroom, grumbling under his breath. The jerk even leaves my fucking door open.
Ugh.
Kicking my bed like a toddler for the count of ten, I then grit my teeth as I stand and storm after him. My heels thunder across the floor, and I’m ready to punch him in the nose when I reach the dining room, to find him sitting at the stupid table that I never eat at. He pushes another chair out with his foot and nods for me to sit.
On a dramatic huff, I fall into the seat.
“Thank you,” he comments and sets the speaker in the center of the table. “You can have this back after we talk about your choice of psychological torture.”
Stabbing my fork into a piece of grilled chicken, I snort at his dramatics. “It’s music.”
“It’s horrible music.”
“Says you.” I happen to love it.
“You only play it to drive me crazy.”
“Yes. Because you won’t leave.” Like I’ve asked of him a million times.
“Pretty sure we’ve been over this, but you tried to kill yourself just a few days ago.”
