‘I should just walk back into the house and lock the door,’ I say, trying to convince myself, but it doesn’t work and I end up trotting down the stairway. Because I’m twisted, broken, messed up. A million different things. The voice inside my head is not my own, but a choir made up of my foster parents over the years. This is what I do. I mess up. I do everything wrong. I shut down because it’s easy and I’m the kind of person that takes the easy way out.
Needing a distraction from the voices, I retrieve my phone out of my pocket and text Greyson, figuring I can tolerate hanging out with him right now. Plus, he can also tell Seth that I’m with him, that way I’m keeping my promise to Luke without having to go explain to Seth that I’m freaking out and need to get the f**k out of the apartment.
Me: Where r u at?
I head down the stairs, waiting for his response. It’s chilly, autumn rolling in and crisping the leaves and grass. I can feel the Wyoming breeze stinging my cheeks and can hear wind chimes singing from somewhere nearby. It seems peaceful. I wish I could freeze. Never take a step forward, never take a step back. Just hold onto this moment, stop moving, stop breathing. Forever. But the phone buzzes from inside my pocket and I have to move again. Sucking in a breath of air, I swipe my finger across the screen, noticing that along with the text message, I have a voicemail. I have no idea when I missed the call but decide to open the text first, since it’s from Greyson.
Greyson: At work. What’s up? U ok?
Me: Yeah, just bored. Took a break from class today. Mind if I come chill at the bar?
Greyson: U know Benny will probably get u to work if u show up here. We’re understaffed.
Me: Better than sitting in the house.
Greyson: Alright, come down then. I’m bored anyway. Bars always slow in the afternoon. Not even sure why Benny insists on keeping it open. The dining side is mad crowded though.
He keeps it open for people like me who want to start drinking early because that’s what I’m going to do if I go there.
My hand trembles at the revelation. Is that where I’ve gotten? Am I that bad? Do I care? About anything? I’m not sure – I’m not sure about anything anymore. I used to be so anti-drinking. And I dealt drugs but rarely dabbled in substances, mainly because it f**ked with my head and my head’s already too f**ked up to begin with. But ever since the thing with Preston I’ve been living in a cloud I chose to create, because it helps me forget all the dirty things I did with him …
‘Wow, I’m a real freaking mess.’ Reality slaps me across the face, cold and hard. I stand there on the steps for a while, motionless.
Always motionless.
Never moving.
It’s not anything new, but it still gets to me every time I think about it – what I’ve become – and my fingers are a little unsteady as I type a response.
Me: C ya in about 15 min.
I listen to the voicemail as I trudge the rest of the way down the stairs, the weight of my life crushing down on me. Things only get worse when I listen to Detective Stephner’s voicemail. At first I think it’s just him giving me an update, even though I’m usually the one that calls him. But when I realize what he’s saying … no I had to have heard him wrong. I have to replay the message. I replay it again and again.
‘No … It can’t be …’ His words slam against my chest, crash over me like a fierce ocean wave that makes me feel like I’m drowning. And instead of fighting it, I just stand there letting the water take me away.
Mira Price has been arrested.
Mira Price has been arrested?
I’m startled, shocked, taken completely off guard. I didn’t anticipate this ever happening, at least I’m realizing this as of this moment. And I definitely didn’t anticipate this kind of reaction from myself. Or maybe I was just in denial. Maybe deep down I knew all of this was lying under the surface, and that when it happened I was going to have to admit many things to myself.
That Mira Price has been arrested for the murder of my parents, and that regardless of this my parents are never coming back.
Nothing will ever bring them back.
By the time I arrive at the bottom of the stairway, I feel like I’m sinking into the ground. It takes all my energy to keep my knees from buckling, but in the end I drop, right on the sidewalk. I can feel the rough surface of the concrete rubbing away layers of my skin from beneath my jeans, but the physical pain is nothing.
Nothing.
The physical pain is my sanctuary.
It’s the emotional pain that’s going to kill me.
Breathe in. Breathe out. I’m stronger than this … or am I? No, I need something to kill the emotions stirring in me … the confusion … the helplessness of the unknown … Where do I go from here? What I need is a window, up high. Something dangerous. Something. Something. Something. To turn off the emotions prickling up in me, sharp as needles, potent as knifes, tearing me apart. It hurts. Aches. Is killing me. I swear I’m bleeding from the inside … too much pain. The pain grows more powerful as I think of what lies before me, the future I have to face.
Finally, I manage to suck it up and bury the pain just enough that I’m able to stand up. Then I walk aimlessly down the sidewalk with an idea rising in my head, one that might help me get through the day. Although, I might not walk out of it alive. I want to find the tallest building, to step onto the edge with my hands spanned out to my side and to lean forward until all emotion inside me is replaced by fear. The idea is terrifying and makes it that much more appealing.
Makes it what I need.
Crave.
Feed my addiction.
I just wonder how long I’m going to be able to keep going like this until I push it too far.
Chapter 5
Luke
I feel like shit today. Not only is the stress of the box and the photo getting to me, but I’m worried about Violet, more than I already was. She’s getting more distant and last night when we had sex it felt like she was somewhere else, drifting farther away from me and one day I’m afraid I won’t be able to reach her.
It stung like a motherfucker and reminded me of myself from not too long ago, when I was ha**ng s*x to feel like I had control over things. I hate that that’s where we’ve gotten, but I don’t know what to do about it. Ask her to get help? Maybe. But I feel like I’d be a hypocrite, like I don’t have the right to say anything about it.
Classes drag on and on as I over analyze everything. I keep checking the time every f**king minute, which makes it feel like it’s moving even slower. I text Violet to check on her and when she doesn’t respond I call her. It goes straight to her voicemail, which is alarming enough in itself, but add an hour of not being able to get a hold of her and I’m f**king freaking out. And I can’t get a hold of Seth. I don’t like the feeling, but I can’t seem to control it, and finally after looking at the clock for about the fiftieth time, I leave class right in the middle of Professor Haperson’s lecture. It’s completely unlike me, Mr Structure, and I get a lot of weird looks in response, especially from Kayden Owens, my best friend since I was a kid. He’s probably thinking about the last time I disappeared, just blew off class and football practice for a couple of weeks without so much as an explanation, which is completely out of character for me, Mr Structure. I still haven’t given him an explanation yet, but that’s mainly because half that explanation belongs to Violet and I’m not going to tell her story without her permission.
Sure enough, I’m halfway across the campus yard when I get a text from Kayden.
Kayden: What’s up? Why r u bailing?
Me: I have to check up on something.
Kayden: Something or someone? Because it seems like you’ve been having to ditch class to check up on that someone a lot lately.
I pause. I’m not sure if he means it rudely or not, but I’m kind of getting the feeling that he may think that a lot of my f**kups are connected to Violet, which makes me a little defensive. Whether they are or not, it doesn’t matter. Violet’s parents are dead because of my mom. Whether she did kill them or not, she was there that night and played some kind of part in the reason Violet grew up with foster families. But Kayden doesn’t know that, so I guess his accusations toward Violet are understandable.
Me: Look, there’s a lot of stuffu don’t know about Violet and I.
Kayden: I figured, but I still worry man … u seem a little off course lately, which is really f**king unlike u.
Me: I know, but I wouldn’t be if it wasn’t important.
It takes him a moment to respond and by the time I get his reply, I’ve made it to my truck and gotten the engine started.
Kayden: Well, if u need help with anything, let me know.
If only he could help. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel like I was continuously falling off a cliff, unsure when I’ll ever land or where I’ll land.
Me: Thanks man, but I can handle it for now.
Biggest lie I’ve ever told. I’m not handling it at all. Not even a little bit. In fact, Violet seems to be getting worse and worse, and it feels like I’m just standing there watching her destroy her life … I feel so damn helpless.
‘Fuck.’ I curse aloud as I drive down the road, frustrated and pissed off at myself for not doing a better job of keeping an eye on her. There are so many bad things that could happen at the moment, anywhere from her harming herself to Preston getting a hold of her. It sends a chill down my spine and slams me in the stomach hard. I can’t lose her – can’t lose the only person I’ve ever cared about. It’s terrifying to think about and I find myself wishing – hoping – that one day, somehow, things won’t be like this. That they’ll be better. Normal.
Please just let things get better.
Chapter 6
Violet
This is my last attempt to try and make the pain go away; the last attempt to fill the void in my heart. I just hope it works, because nothing else seems to.
I’m standing on the edge of the raging river, watching it flow powerfully over the rocks, curving around the bends, dipping beneath the bridge, beauty at its finest. I wish I was a painter so I could capture the beautifulness. Or a photographer. I wish I were a lot of things; or at least knew what I wanted to be, then maybe this would be easier – life could be easier. If I had direction, a purpose, other than always drifting like the leaves in the water.
I blink the long sequences of thoughts from my mind, ones created from the adrenaline coursing through me, along with an abundance of alcohol. Then I force myself to step up to the edge, where the rushing water meets the sandy shore. I’m only procrastinating, distracting myself from what I came here to do, another attempt after several failed ones. I’m not sure, but today it’s been hard to calm myself down. I’m not sure why. Am I more scared than usual? No. Have I changed my mind? Definitely not. Once I decide I need to do this I’m beyond going back. I’ve reached the emotional point I can’t deal with – don’t know how to deal with – and this is the only way I know how. It’s what I’ve been doing for years and it’s no longer a habit, an escape, but a part of me, engrained into my skin like my tattoos.
‘I need this,’ I whisper and then with a deep breath I wade into the violent water. It soaks through my clothes and hits my skin instantly, a thousand tiny needles, warning me to go back. But I keep going forward, until I’m submerged to the waist … the chest … the neck … I can barely keep my legs under me now, the power of the water fighting to tug me under, suck me up, take me away. Part of me wants to let it, wants to lift my feet up and get carried away into the unknown. I have no idea if I’ll survive and that’s kind of the point. The terrifying, intoxicating point. But the little will left inside me, the one that whispers that it’s not just me anymore, begs me to put up a fight.
‘I don’t know if I want to anymore.’ I call over the water. ‘I’m so tired of fighting just so I can tread with my head above the water.’ The sound of my voice gets lost in the roar of the water as I stand there waiting for … well, I’m not sure. An answer to what I should do? Where do I go from here?
There’s no answer though, and the only choice I have is to wade back to shore. Maybe it’s not the only choice though. After all, I could just give up right now, but I’m not. I’m choosing to go back to my life, to my home, to the people in it. What does that mean?
Unsure, I start to turn around toward the shore again, but mid-turn, my feet get ripped out from under me. A breath later, as my head slams against a rock, I’m engulfed in water. I try to grab onto something, desperately seek to get my footing, but I don’t stand a chance. The water’s too strong and my head is fuzzy from the bump. I can barely see anything … water … rocks … water … myself swirling in the center of it.
Oh my God, I’m going to die.
I’ve never had that thought before. Never truly thought I was going to die through all the things I’ve done. I’ve pushed myself to the edge, but I always knew the point where I’d cross the No Going Back Line and never crossed it.
But now I’ve crossed it.
And I’m going to f**king die right now.
I want to cry because I’m not ready for this, not ready to go. I try to open my mouth to yell for help, remembering that there were people just up the shore, but every time I open my mouth, I swallow huge gulps of water that I choke on. So instead I fight for my life. I fight like a Goddamn person who wants to live more than anything else in the word. I’m surprised how much I fight. How much I want to make it back to the shore. How much I want my life. How much I see the things I want … see the people I want. I swear in the midst of it I hear my father’s voice, telling me to be strong. I swear I see him too, swimming toward me, to help me get back to the shore. It’s just an illusion, though, the person’s face shifting into someone else as they get closer.