Copyright © 2013 by E. K. Blair
Cover Design by E.K. Blair
Editing by Lisa Christman, Adept Edits
Interior design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
https://www.facebook.com/FictionalFormats
Photography by Andrei Vishnyakov
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-578-13351-5
prologue
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter sixteen
chapter seventeen
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
chapter thirty
chapter thirty-one
chapter thirty-two
chapter thirty-three
chapter thirty-four
chapter thirty-five
chapter thirty-six
chapter thirty-seven
chapter thirty-eight
chapter thirty-nine
chapter forty
chapter forty-one
chapter forty-two
chapter forty-three
chapter forty-four
chapter forty-five
chapter forty-six
chapter forty-seven
chapter forty-eight
chapter forty-nine
chapter fifty
chapter fifty-one
epilogue
acknowledgements
For my husband
No fall could ever compare to the one I had with you.
Two pills. Two fuckin’ blue pills. I swore I’d stop this shit, but I can’t stand the pain that still radiates in the back of my head where he shattered his beer bottle the other night. I hate that I’m just like him—dependent on this shit. Fuck it.
Tossing them into my mouth, I pour the cheap tequila down my throat and relish the burn that singes in my chest. My body falls lifelessly back onto the bed while the muffled music pounds through the walls.
“Give me some,” Rene says. Or is it Rachel? Who the hell cares? She pulls the bottle out of my hand and takes a draw of the amber liquid.
Handing it back to me, all I see is a hazy shadow as I feel her crawl on top of me. This chick leeched herself to me when I walked into this party earlier. I knew she’d be an easy lay, and when she shoves her hand down my pants and grabs my dick, she proves me right.
I don’t even try to focus as my body starts to weigh down from the effects of the pills. I love this feeling. Numb. Heavy. Warm. Hazy. It takes me over, and I don’t even realize that this girl is now fucking me until I look up. Closing my eyes, I begin to drift. Drift from the hell that consumes me. It’s Saturday night. The night he stays out late drinking just to come home and impale everything he hates about his life into me.
Waking up, head still heavy, vision clearer, I sit on the edge of the bed. I look over my shoulder and see some redhead, naked, sleeping. Who is she? I don’t remember what happened, but I know we screwed because my pants are flung across the room, and I see the used condom on the floor.
My watch says it’s after one in the morning, and I need to get home. Pulling on my pants, I stumble slightly as I make my way through the house filled with people I barely know, drinking, dancing, making out.
When I start my car, I know I shouldn’t be driving, but I also know that I need to go because my dad normally drags his drunk-ass in around this time. I hate knowing that my mom will be there alone with him.
Pulling up to the dark grey, two-story house I have always lived in, I can’t help but think about how the impeccably manicured structure is simply a mask for the madness that lives within. My stomach clenches when I see his truck in the driveway. I shut the car off and rush inside, but I know I’m too late when I hear my mother crying. Bolting through the house and into the kitchen, I get there just in time to see my dad swinging his arm around and smashing a coffee mug into the side of her head. Turning to face me, her face is void as she falls to the floor, blood everywhere.
“What are you looking at, you piece of shit?” he spits at me, and I fuckin’ lose it.
My body roils with vengeance when I charge at him, and we tumble, crashing to the floor. Rage takes over as I begin to pound my fists into his face relentlessly. Over and over. Skin splitting. Blood gushing. The sounds of my mom screaming and the grunts I force out with every blow to his face are a distant echo in my head.
He thrashes beneath me, but I don’t stop. I know I’m gonna kill him, and I hope I do. My teeth snap shut when he drives his palm into my jaw, causing me to bite my tongue. He continues to fight his way out from under me, flailing his arms, and dumping shit everywhere when he yanks one of the kitchen drawers out of its tracks.
My mouth fills with blood, and just when I spit it into his face, I fall over onto the floor.
“Fuck!” I scream through gritted teeth as I grab my side. I hear the clatter of metal falling to the ground and watch my father’s black boots stumbling away from me.
Cold shivers prick at my body, and my vision fades as my breathing becomes more and more shallow. My mother’s warm arms scoop my shoulders onto her lap as she cries, and I let my head fall to the side. When I see the bloody butcher’s knife, I lift my shaking hand that’s clutched to my side and raise it in front of my face. All I see is red.
I wake up the next morning, body sore and twenty-seven stitches in my side, along my ribs, where that son of a bitch stabbed me last night. Sitting up, I flinch against the stinging flesh. My mom is still asleep. I made her stay in my bed last night in case my father came back home, which he didn’t.
I quietly make my way downstairs and feel the guilt from everything that happened last night flood through my veins. If I’d never gone out, my mother probably wouldn’t be sleeping in my bed with a concussion and stitches in her head.
I’ve been so selfish lately and getting too fucked up on ecstasy and alcohol to protect my mom. The drinking, the drugs, the rage that fired through me last night—I’m him. He’s a part of me. He runs through my blood. I hate him. I don’t want to be him, but I am.
Having him consume me like this makes me sick to my stomach, and I swear to God, I will do everything I can to avoid what I fear is destined to be my future. I’ve gotta stop the fuckin’ pills. I’ve gotta . . .