Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

2. Win

2

Win

W hat recovering addict agrees to go to a party with a stranger?

A dumbass asking to fuck up, that’s who.

My palms itch— shit, all of me itches— but it can’t be blamed on the rager. Nope, this forgettable beach town alone does the trick. Returning to Fort Misery (a way more accurate name than Fort Manor) with its resident retirees and rich pricks is by far the worst decision I’ve ever made.

Well, it wasn’t technically my choice, but it’s what I deserve after everything I’ve done.

It’s a double-edged sword. Some of my most precious memories were born here alongside my worst nightmares. As much as the nostalgia soothes me, I'm plagued by the idea that I wouldn't have resorted to my preferred methods of mental escape without coming here in the first place. Delusional what-ifs are halted by the hissing voice in my head. You would’ve been an addict anyway, dipshit .

Maybe.

Or maybe the sickness is in this town. A monster with black tentacles reaching through the sand to wrap around the legs of unsuspecting victims, infecting them with misery and sucking out their souls until they’re nothing but zombies.

What can I say? It’s easier to blame everything and everyone but myself. At least I’m self-aware.

The musk of weed clings to the air as I cross the threshold into a crammed townhouse a few miles from FMU's campus. If only I had the self-control to smoke; it used to help me sleep but then it wasn’t enough. It’s never enough. Nothing will be.

I take a shaky breath, blinking away the haze.

“What do you want to drink?” Jay asks, wiggling his brows. I can’t tell if he’s being cringy on purpose or if he thinks it's cute. He’s been attempting to flirt with me since Mom’s disastrous damage-control luncheon. She's unfortunately failing at downplaying the circumstances of my return a week ago.

At least I can hide in the guest house. I would’ve begged to stay at Crestview Rehabilitation Center over living under the same roof as my parents again. They’re not awful, I just can’t stand the constant hovering. We’re getting along as well as expected with my unpredictable moods and their perpetual exhaustion. (It’s draining work worrying if your child is on the verge of relapse. Even more of a chore to rattle off neatly crafted and ridiculously vague explanations for said child's current situation.)

Their pretentious friends struggle to wrap their vacant heads around the fact that Marceline’s twenty-two-year-old son moved home after his biological father died rather than live on his own like a functioning adult. Imagine their shock when they learned I not only failed out of college for missing too many classes when Dad was sick but also got addicted to booze, molly and leftover pain pills.

I certainly know how to leave a lasting impression .

My stepdad, Esquire Richard Hastings, wasn’t thrilled with the sizable rehab bill but paid it despite my protests. Protests that sound pathetic and empty even to my own ears in retrospect— there's no way I’ll ever pay him back. After three grueling months of withdrawals and intense therapy, I walked out of the facility to be handed a plane ticket and a note with his monogram stamped across the top.

Winston,

Your things have been packed and moved home. We've been patient and understanding for long enough but we can't continue to stand aside and enable your behavior while you destroy yourself. We'll see you soon.

Love, Richard and Mom

I might’ve fallen to the curb and cried in front of the very uncomfortable and impatient driver sent to escort me to the airport.

“You like rum?” Jay prods at my blank stare.

I clear my throat, glancing around at the mingling faceless bodies. I don’t know anyone here. No one will tell my parents if I indulge in a drink. Or two. Or maybe bump a line—

“Water,” I croak.

Watching the realization wash over him is almost comical.

“That’s right, sorry, I forgot.”

Lies. He didn’t forget. He wants to get me tipsy so he can fuck me. They all do. It’s expected at this point.

I grasp onto instinctual defiance and hold on for dear life while flashing him a saccharine smile. He gulps and spins around in search of the most boring liquid on the planet.

Taking the opening, I gun it toward the slider, mumbling, “Excuse me,” and “Sorry,” a hundred times as I shoulder through drunk fools. Give me air, space and silence .

God, I’m a fucking idiot for coming here. This is what I get for dodging another exasperating evening of Mom and Richard pressuring me to sign up for music classes at the community college. They even offered to hire a private tutor for violin. I haven’t touched the instrument in years.

Sometimes, I wish I wasn’t a stubborn prick.

Instead of being in bed wearing sweats with V tucked under my chin, I’m running like there’s a fire under my ass through sweaty, intoxicated strangers toward some false hope of peace.

I’m making good headway when I swear I hear my name. It’s not yelled— it’s more of a gasp that somehow slices through the racket.

I make the fatal mistake of pausing.

Of turning.

The sliver of hope nestled behind the fractured remnants of my heart sneaks out from its hiding spot. It caresses my face and smiles sadly, whispering, “ You poor lost thing. You’ve never stopped looking, have you? Always over your shoulder, at every face in a crowd, around corners and behind doors. You’ve been waiting and wishing for this moment since the day you left. ”

My eyes burn.

Breathing is impossible.

The vault of memories I’ve kept carefully tucked away spills out everything I’ve tried so hard to repress.