Page 6 of Fatal Collision
It’s happened too many times recently, and Chris and I often clash over this. The mechanic job at Bleakmoor Auto Repair doesn’t pay enough to cover the bills and Mom’s treatment. I understand his pride is wounded because he can’t provide for us, but racing isn’t the answer.
And Dad? What does Dad do? Drink the money away, that’s what. The only reason we haven’t kickedhim out yet is that I don’t want to lose another parent. But things are tense at home.
A few weeks back, Chris and Dad had a big blowout that turned nasty, and Summer had walked away with a black eye after she stepped between them. My father, drunk and disoriented, swung at Chris, but missed.
That was the final straw for my brother, who stormed out and didn’t return for three days. Yet despite everything, I can’t throw our dad out on the street. I just can’t. Mom wouldn’t want that. Dad is broken and hurting, but how do you parent your own parent? At what point do you give up on them?
“What’s the buy-in?” I ask again, firmer this time.
Chris’s chair scrapes on the floorboards as he stands up and discards his leftover pancakes in the trash can. The air is tense around him. Summer fidgets, but I’m done walking on eggshells since he returned from wherever the hell he shacked up for three days. He can’t just up and leave every time shit gets hard. How is that fair to us? I’m the one who picks up the pieces around here.
In case he hasn’t noticed, I’m barely keeping myself together, but I’m trying for Summer.
“What’s the buy-in?” My firm voice causes his shoulders to rise to his ears.
He spins around. “You don’t have to fucking worry about that. I’m gonna win, alright?”
I haven’t told him yet about crashing Kane Ravencourt’s party and stealing from his father’s rare collection. Most of the items fell out of my bag, but I gotaway with one ornament—a fancy dagger with an intricately carved handle—which is still in my bedroom, tucked into my bedside drawer. I haven’t flipped it yet. Something stops me, and I don’t know what exactly.
I just… I hate how low I’ve stooped to keep us afloat. It’s all because of stuff like this… my brother’s illegal racing, the drug dealing, my father’s drinking. Why do I always have to sacrifice my morals to keep us afloat? It won’t be long before I have to beg for a job at the local strip club, and we all know what goes down in their private rooms.
A violent shudder crawls down my spine at the thought of selling my body. I shouldn’t let my mind go there. Not yet, at least… not until I’ve exhausted all other options, including stealing from the founding families.
Chris drops his plate into the sink and storms out before I can argue further, leaving me to hold back tears. I cover my face with my hands, my shoulders caving beneath the weight of the last few weeks. We need to stop fighting.
It sucks that we’re constantly bickering. There was a time when we were good friends, a time when I would confide in him. Those days are gone, and I worry our family might never heal again.
Summer gently rubs my shoulder, and my bottom lip trembles, but before tears fall, I force down the sadness for yet another day.
FOUR
JESSICA
Bleakmoor is a town divided. Not by fences or laws, but by money and the weight of old names.
Names like Ravencourt, Rousseau, Sterling and Sinclair.
On the south end, Bleakmoor Heights stretches along the cliffs like something out of a painting. Think luxurious mansions, iron gates and private beaches.
Four families built this town, and they’re considered royalty in this backward place. Their spoiled kids drive imported cars, and their last names unlock privileges others can’t access. They attend Bleakmoor Heights University, where tuition costs more than most people earn in a year, and legacy is everything.
Their future is already set. But it’s a world I can’t relate to as someone who’s had to fight for every crumb.
Which brings me to my next point.
Bleakmoor Falls. The north side.
That’s where I’m from.
Up here, the town is full of derelict buildings that look like they’re one storm away from collapsing. Salt eats away at the bricks, and weeds grow from the cracks in the roads. Locals crowd the bars after long shifts, and young people find new and inventive ways to get into trouble.
We go to Bleakmoor Falls College if we’re lucky, and that’s if we haven’t been pulled into drugs and crime first. The classrooms are old, the heat rarely works, and we don’t have rich daddies to pave the path ahead of us. We fight for every fucking penny just to survive. But we have heart and a sense of community that can’t be bought with a black card.
In some ways, I’m proud of being ‘trailer trash.’
I don’t actually live in a trailer, but the house is so small, it’s not far off one,but whatever.
Graffiti is another thing that’s everywhere around here, on buildings and lockers. Some would even call it art, myself included.
