Page 12 of Seven Lost Summers
My one fucking chance.
I slip into my room without a sound, heart in my throat, and shove the window open. Cold air hits my face like a slap. My hands tremble against the ledge. I get one leg over. My pulse hammers in my skull, louder than the fear, louder than the voice screaming, "don’t". Freedom’s right in front of me, close enough to taste, burning on my tongue like something I was never meant to have but might steal anyway.
The door slams open like a fucking explosion.
A crash.
A shadow.
The weight of everything I’m trying to outrun shoves its way into the room.
My heart stalls, but panic kicks harder. I lurch forward, scrambling to lift my other leg, to throw myself out the window before the chance is gone. But it already fucking is.
He’s on me in seconds. Charging across the room like something feral, unhinged.
I barely catch the frame before his fist snatches a handful of my hair and yanks me back so hard the room tilts sideways. Everything spins… light, shadow, ceiling… ending with a thud.
My back hits the floor. All the air is knocked clean out of me. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.
My body screams, but I stay silent as he drags me across the room by my hair. Every nerve burns, every inch of my scalp is on fire. His grip tightens, twists, punishes. The pain is sharp enough to blind me, to drag a sob straight from my chest. But I swallow the scream. I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.
I’ve been here before. I understand how this plays out. Screaming feeds him. Fighting gives him something to swing harder at. And I’ll fucking die before I give him that power.
So I clench my jaw until the bone threatens to snap, swallow the cry choking its way up my throat. Every nerve is screaming, every muscle begging for the pain to stop, but I don’t make a sound. I shove the sensation down. Bury it deep where he can’t reach. Lock it behind everything I’ve already had to become to survive. Because if I push through this, I might still have a chance to get the fuck out.
One day. I whisper the words in my head like a curse, over and over. A broken prayer, a promise laced in blood. This won’t last forever. Eventually, he’ll be the one on the floor, choking on the same fear he’s forced down my throat. Someday, I’ll be the one standing over him while he begs—just like I used to.
By the time we hit the living room, he’s breathing like a fucking animal—heavy, uneven—but his grip doesn’t slip. His fist stays locked in my hair, knuckles bone-white, like he needs to hurt something just to remind himself he’s still in control.
He halts beside the busted coffee table, grabs a half-empty beer bottle with his free hand, and downs the drink in one long, messy pull. Foam spills down his chin, soaking into the coarse stubble along his jaw. When the bottle’s dry, he hurls the glass without a second thought. I don’t need to see the impact—I hear the sharp, splintering crash as the bottle explodes against the wall. Another mess. Another piece of him I’ll have to dodge.
Next comes the joint. He lights up as if it’s a ritual; the flame flickering long enough to catch before the tip glows red-hot. He takes a slow drag, savoring it like peace is something he can inhale. Smoke spills from his mouth in thick, curling tendrils, drifting toward me, sinking into my skin, my clothes, my lungs. It pollutes the air, thick enough to drown in. And I’m stuck there, forced to breathe it in—his poison, his power, his fucking way of reminding me I’ll never be free.
As though the thought only occurs to him that he’s still got a hold on me, he leans in. Too close. His heat bleeds into my skin as his breath ghosts over the back of my neck, reeking of cheap liquor and rot. It coats me like a sickness, crawling across my nerves, leaving everything inside me recoiling. My stomach twists, bile burns at the back of my throat, and my skin prickles, begging for space I’ll never get.
I shift my gaze, and that’s when I see the tiny bag of coke sitting there. Waiting. Daring me. Whispering the same promise the powder always does: escape. Oblivion in powdered form.
I’ve thought about it more times than I can count. One breath. One goddamn sniff. And I’d be gone.
No more pain.
No more past.
Drowning in the same hollow, fucked-up world that’s already swallowed him whole. Some nights, the weight almost passes for mercy. To stop the fighting. To stop clawing at the walls when every path out of here, leads straight back to him. I want to let the rot crawl into my bones, let the numbness smother everything until I don’t have to feel, don’t have to remember all the shit that’s been done to me. Let it pull me under until I disappear completely. No more screaming in my head. No more bruises I can’t cover. No more waking up and wishing I hadn’t. Where I don’t have to be me anymore.
But then, always, without fail, Nate’s face cuts through the dark. And suddenly, I can’t.
Nate, my best friend, my anchor.
The only person who knows the truth. Every bit of the story. Who’s seen me broken, bleeding, wrecked and never once looked away. He doesn’t flinch at the bruises. Doesn’t pretend the scars don’t exist. He just stares straight through the mess and looks at me like I’m still worth something.
That’s why he’s the only thing that feels real. The only thing that cuts through the static. He’s my out when it all gets too loud. My grip on the edge when I’m one breath from letting go. He’s my escape… my fucking lifeline. The last thread holding me above water while everything else drags me under.
Nate’s the one who tells me I’m more than this. More than the shit my father beat into me. More than the rage I’ve swallowed. All the blood I’ve choked down and the numbness I’ve learned to live with.
So I fight, because of him.
Even when it fucking hurts.
