— Ian —
Harlow is gone, crying as she left my room. She took the last remaining piece of my soul with her. Now, there’s just darkness and the ugly thing that lurks in my chest.
It’s fucking lonely in the dark.
I am crying too. My father would be disgusted. He would tell me to grow up, to be a man, but he has never felt pain. I don’t think he has ever experienced any human emotion. He’s just an animal, surviving.
I dig my vodka bottle out of the bottom of my nightstand and unscrew the cap. I take a big swallow, but I don’t taste the bite of the liquor or feel the burn as it collides with the back of my throat. I tip the bottle against my lips and chug.
I shouldn’t do this. I disgust myself. I take another long swallow. Stop! I spew what’s left in my mouth on the floor and throw the bottle away from me. It shatters on impact, denting the wall with the hit.
I stare at the tablet, the photograph of my parents flickering across the broken screen. Vodka drips down the wallpaper and pools on the floor. The stench of it burns my nostrils. The shit’s like 100 proof, and it’ll probably eat through the varnish. Not that I care.
I should go find her. I fucked up. I really fucked up. But I don’t know if finding her will fix it. I don’t know how to fix it.
My fingers bite into my palms. I want to punch something. I want to punch myself. Scratch that. I want to sleep like the mother-fucking dead and awaken from this nightmare. That’s the only thing that will make this better.
I rip open the top drawer on my dresser and feel upward until the hidden compartment unlatches and falls, spilling all the nice things that will make the pain go away. I finger through the pill bottles until I find it.
I open the Oxy and swallow two whole. I almost choke, the bitter chalky aftertaste lingering on my tongue, but I swallow again to force them down and grab a third for good measure.
I should stop. I should take it slow. I should think about what I’m doing, but I walk back over to my nightstand and pull out the bottle of bourbon pressed against the far back corner.
I shouldn’t.
This is getting out of hand.
I feel myself slipping.
Maybe if I drink enough of this shit, it’ll all become one bad hangover.
The gossip mag called it the Becketts’ kink, but they write whatever they have to so the housewives on the east coast will titter and follow them on Twitter. They are wrong. This isn’t a fetish. This isn’t some role-playing shit. It’s my fucking life.
Rage beats inside me like a drum. Of course, my parents would do this. They always do. Their friends, pretty housewives choking on Valium and Xanax with their pompous husbands who have a side piece or two, now have a spark of gossip to ignite their dinner parties.
But I know the truth. I know the smell of arnica cream on my mother and the pore-less look of the thick foundation she uses to hide the bruises. She may not adore my father, but she is afraid of him and the long line of money that follows his name.
My limbs are heavy. I am becoming numb. I don’t even taste the liquor as it slides down my throat.
My stomach rolls, and I choke down the urge to vomit. I could blame it on the pills or the booze or my shitty parents, but none of that would be true. I am the cause of my sickness.
When I look in the mirror, I see him.
When I think about all the ugly shit I’ve done over the years, I am reminded of him and the ugly bruises he’s left on my mother.
I am not what she deserves.
I am the monster.
I am her monster.
And there’s no mother-fucking way I get to turn into Prince Charming.
35
Harlow
Our first fight.
I feel…
I feel...
I feel...numb.
Maybe if I hadn’t been bawling for the last hour, I would feel something. Maybe if I wasn’t weak, maybe if I didn’t have to rely on pills to keep the darkness away, I would feel something.
But I am not the one who’s done anything wrong. Like Dr. Murray says in our appointments, needing medication isn’t something to be ashamed of and just because I don’t fit into some Hollywood notion of teenage normalcy doesn’t mean I am weak. I may resent the pills and I may be jealous of the Hallmark-approved version of me I lost months ago, but I’m not ashamed, and I certainly won’t take the blame for Ian being an asshole.
In an instant, like a balloon popping inside my belly, anger explodes inside me. This isn’t my fault. I may have a fucked up brain, but who doesn’t? We didn’t have an argument. We had a conclusion, the equivalent of him slamming the door in my face and locking the deadbolt.
I want to scream and yell at him. I want to demand answers until my throat splits and bleeds. I want to...
I want to hold him.
I’m giving myself emotional whiplash.
I knew his parents had problems—whose parents don’t?—but I never would have guessed that his dirty little secret would be that his father beats his mother. My stomach churns like a choppy tide at the thought. What he has seen, what he has been witness to since birth, makes my skin crawl.
Abuse. Fear. Money to make it all go away. And the cycle repeats.
Ian’s mom loves him. I’ve spent less than five minutes with her, but it’s apparent all the same. It’s in the way her attention is devoted to him when he’s in a room, how her lips weigh down when he rubs his eyes or looks anything less than absolutely content. Maybe she thought she could protect him from the dark side of
