CHAPTER 7
TRENT
Fuck. This sucks. And by this, I mean everything. Kian brought my journal over to me on Monday of last week, and it hasn’t moved from its spot on the dresser because I have no muse to inspire me to write. None of the words floating through my brain make sense, and they would sound even worse written on paper.
One whole week, and I’ve left Mitch’s house for AA meetings three times. Three times of sitting in the hard chairs listening to how terrible people’s lives were, and how that’s what drove them to drinking. Three hours of listening to some of the worst trauma I've heard in my life. It’s had me examining my own life countless times, from my first memory to my current, wondering why I thought my life was so horrible that I needed to use alcohol to cope.
That’s not how it works though, at least not by how the man who leads the group describes it. He always says, “There’s no right way to suffer,” as if that’s any consolation.
Everyone shares. They tell their stories, they comfort each other, and I sit on the hard ass fold-out chair resenting that I even need to be there.
There’s another meeting tonight, and I'm going to go. Because that’s my only goal: to change and be the man I need to be for Kian.
Kian. We’ve texted every night, and he tells me he loves me every single night before he falls asleep. He’s the only reason I have the power to push through the withdrawal symptoms. They’re minor, compared to some of the people in the group.
Fatigue is the worst one, but Mitch doesn’t seem to mind if I fall asleep on the couch while we’re supposed to be working on the five-thousand-piece puzzle. He’s planning on framing it, but he has too much faith in us to get it done. It’s called the impossible puzzle for a reason.
“I’m ordering pizza. What do you want?” Mitch hollers at me from the living room.
“Pepperoni and sausage, with extra cheese.” The thought of the pile of toppings and extra cheese has my mouth watering, and my stomach rumbling in appreciation.
“Do you have money for those extra charges?”
“Put it on my tab,” I say. I would feel guilty, but this is Mitch. The man who I consider a father, because he’s the closest thing I've ever had to a parental figure. Someone who will call me out on my bullshit but also simultaneously spoil me by buying all my favorite snacks. Even when I haven't done anything to deserve the VIP treatment I've been getting.
I come out of the bedroom, closing the door behind me to keep a semblance of privacy in this house. Mitch is sitting on the couch in front of the TV, not watching the old reruns of the TV show playing. His back is hunched over the coffee table, separating puzzle pieces into different sections as if that’s going to help him figure out what goes where.
I stare at him for a moment, really studying him. He's not the same man he was when he first took me and Kian in. The deep lines in his forehead and at the corners of his eyes have spread, his skin wrinkling with old age. This year will be his sixtieth birthday, and every year he gets older, I become more terrified of losing him. He’s the only family we have.
“It’s about damn time you came out here! I need help. This son-of-a-bitch is pissing me off.”
I chuckle and plop myself beside him on the worn, leather couch. The fan in the corner blows directly on us, rustling my hair. We sit in silence as I follow his method for separating the pieces. It isn’t awkward; it’s the kind of silence that comes from peace. From being in the moment, and not needing to speak physical words when the wavelength you’re both on is vibrating.
The doorbell rings, and Mitch stands up, putting his hands on the back of his hips and cracking his back. The loud pop hurts my own joints.
“Pizza’s here,” a joyous voice says. Oh! Kian! I'm so excited to see Kian that I hit the table in my haste to get up, knocking the pieces on the floor. Thousands of pieces scatter, and my heart drops.
Of fucking course. Just another thing I’ve fucked up.
Not waiting for them to walk in and see the disaster I've made and how I've ruined Mitch’s project, I run to the bedroom and lock the door behind me. Throwing myself on the bed, I barely manage to hold in the scream that wants to erupt from my mouth in a violent spew of anger. Rage. Fury.
I want a drink. I need a drink to help this overwhelming sensation go away. It’s the only thing that can make it disappear, if even for a little bit.
I hear footsteps in the living room, the sounds so similar to the pounding in my temple. What I would give right now to disappear, for them to not see me as the fuck up I am–the fuck up I’ve always been. I can’t change. I don’t know why I ever thought I could. Because at my core, I'm no different than I was a week ago. A month ago. A year ago. A decade ago. I’m still the piece of shit, with a piece of shit mom and stepdad who isn’t going anywhere in life.
“Trent?” A tentative knock comes from the other side of the door, and I have to bury my face farther into the pillow so I don’t do something stupid. Like fucking cry.
“Trent, can you open the door? Please?" Kian doesn’t sound mad–he never sounds mad. Only disappointed, disgusted, upset. All of the things that are worse coming from him than anyone else I've ever known.
I can take physical pain. I took it for years and never made more than a peep. The mental pain is worse though. It's a parasite, sucking my life essence out until I'm nothing but a hollow shell begging for someone to put an end to my misery.
Hearing the doorknob jiggle slightly, I know he’s trying to pick the lock. The stupidly smart motherfucker he is… he doesn’t know when to quit.
“Go away, Kian. I’m not in the mood.”
“I don’t care. I'm coming in whether you open the door or I open it myself,” he asserts. Because he’s also stubborn, headstrong in what he wants, and he doesn’t let anything or anyone stand in his way. Even if he’s awkward while doing it.
The lock clicks, but I don't make a move to get up, letting the hot air of my own breath cover my face. With a dip of the bed, I feel Kian’s warm body pressed against mine, his floral scent invading my senses.
Why can’t he just leave me alone?
“It’s fine, Trent. It was just a puzzle.” He runs his nimble fingers through my hair. A comforting feeling settles in my bones. I don’t deserve his kindness.
“It’s not just the puzzle.”
It's everything , I want to scream. But my mouth isn’t capable of forming the words, the four syllables colliding and shifting things around in my head.
This is about so much more than just what’s going on now. And I don't know how to tell him that. How can I tell him that, after all these years, doubts and negative thoughts still plague me? They still haunt my dreams and every waking moment. They’re always there in the back of my mind. Waiting for me to mess up something so they can prove, once again, that I'm nothing.
“Talk to me,” Kian says. “I won't understand what’s going on if you don’t tell me.”
Doesn’t he get that I can't tell him? He won’t understand. He goes through life with rose-colored glasses, seeing the bright side of every situation, the best intentions in every person. And he’s just so happy.
Making Kian happy has always been my number one priority, but lately I’m afraid I can’t.