Chapter 13
13
AGE 17
R ed-hot anger is my constant companion in the days that follow. Along with a bottle of JD. I don’t even attempt to hide my drinking from my parents. Bitterness and resentment replace the blood flowing through my veins as I attempt to drown my spiraling emotions at the bottom of a whiskey bottle.
I completely lose the plot when an envelope arrives with an updated NDA and my birth cert, throwing shit around my room as my pain runs free. I’m panting and sweating by the time I’ve finished rearranging my room. I’m surprised Ma didn’t barge in when she heard all the noise.
Everyone is asking me what’s wrong, but I can’t tell them. Vocalizing it will only confirm how worthless and rejected I feel. If I say it out loud, who’s to say my family won’t draw the same conclusion? I have brought nothing but trouble into their lives. If they aren’t already regretting taking me in, they would after I tell them. The two people who should love me most hate my guts, and they want me to disappear and pretend like I don’t exist. Knowing I’m that inconsequential is a hard pill to swallow. It hurts real fucking bad. I’ve tried telling myself what they think doesn’t fucking matter, but it’s not helping. Inside, I’m consumed with pain and anger, and it’s eating me up. It’s bad enough I’m having to deal with all of this. No sense in letting everyone else suffer along with me.
I’m seconds away from shredding the NDA when I think better of it. This is evidence of who Simon and Reeve Lancaster are to me. It’s leverage. Perhaps it’ll come in handy at some point. If Reeve is going to be as big of a star as the dickhead thinks, maybe I’ll go to the press. If my darling twin brother becomes Hollywood’s next golden boy, my revelation could be worth a lot. It might be a way to pocket some easy money and stick the knife into the Lancasters’ backs at the same time. Of course, I’d also be outing myself, and I’m not sure I want to do that either. But at least it gives me options. Ha! Bet that asshole didn’t consider this before he posted the paperwork to me.
Sliding the papers back in the envelope, I tuck it into the shoebox I keep at the top of my wardrobe, hidden behind a bunch of old Rolling Stone magazines.
I receive the first text message that same day. It’s sent from a different phone number to the one listed with the paperwork, but I know it’s from him .
Sign the NDA.
Keep your mouth shut.
If you speak out, the O’Donoghues will pay the price for your selfishness.
He doesn’t need to elaborate for me to imagine what he might do. He’s rich and powerful, and my parents are no match for the likes of him. Knowing he’s tied my hands is so frustrating. I wonder why he’s offering me money at all. Surely, he knows all he has to do is threaten my family and I won’t breathe a word. I would never risk it. I’m beyond frustrated he has the upper hand, but I will find a way to get him back even if it takes me years.
Receiving the paperwork and the text only adds to my torment, and I spiral deeper. Dark emotions stab me from the inside until I’m nothing but a shredded, bloody mess of organs, tissues, and cells. The hollow ache that has always lived inside me expands, threatening to smother me completely. The pain is like a thousand tiny daggers constantly stabbing me all over. My head and my heart are so fucked up, and I’m falling apart at the seams.
I lash out at everyone, just wanting the world to fuck off and leave me alone.
Jamie is worried when I’m a no-show for our Friday and Saturday night gigs. Aaron is pissed, and Conor is zoned out as usual. I finally drag my arse out of bed on Monday to practice with the band, and it’s the only bit of peace I’ve found since the dickhead flipped my world upside down. I vent my emotions through music, passing out on the sofa in the outbuilding a couple of nights.
The next Friday, I’m completely fucking locked when I take to the stage for our regular gig in Bray Harbor. Ironically, it’s my best performance to date, and the crowd are going wild by the time we finish our set. Girls crawl all over me as I make my way to the bar to grab another beer. I’m starting to sober up and fuck that shit. I don’t want reality to come crawling back in, kicking and screaming. So, I down a beer, gratefully accept the tequila shots Phoebe and her friend Sammie buy me, and then I take them both around the back of the building and take turns fucking them.
That becomes a regular pattern as July turns into August. When I’m not asleep, I’m either drunk or stoned. Conor and I spend a couple nights up at Killiney Hill, completely off our faces, and if I could get away with smoking weed every day, I’d happily stay stoned forever. But Catherine O’Donoghue would never let me get away with it.
“Get up,” Ma shouts in an angry voice as she whips the covers off me. “This ends now, Dillon. I am not going to stand by and watch you throw your life away.”
“Fuck off.” Lifting my head, I glare at her before tugging the covers back over me. “It’s summer holidays. I’ll get up when I fucking want to.”
“You’ll get up now, young man.” She moves for the duvet again, but I curl it around my body and hold on to it with a tight grip. “You have chores to do.”
I haven’t lifted a finger to help out since that fateful night. “Fuck chores. Fuck life.” I have a vise grip on the duvet, and we tussle as she tries to pull it off me, and I cling more possessively to it.
“Dillon, please.” She gives up a few seconds later. “If you won’t tell me what’s wrong, at least talk to your sister.”
“There’s nothing to talk about,” I repeat for the umpteenth time. “You’re like a broken record, and you’re giving me a fucking headache. Just go away and let me sleep.”
“I want to know what happened. You were perfectly fine leaving for boxing that Thursday, and all of this started the next day.” The bed dips as she sits down. “Did someone hurt you? Please tell me.”
“For the last fucking time, Ma, no one hurt me,” I lie. “And nothing happened. This is the new me. Get used to it.” Anger burns like acid in my gut, and I squash the need to scream from the top of my lungs. Inside, I’m screaming all the time, and it’s exhausting.
She vigorously shakes her head. “This isn’t you. This angry person saying all these cruel things is not my son.”
“I’m not yours!” I shout, pushing up on my elbows. “I’m just some stray you took in, and I bet you regret it. Well don’t worry, Mother , I’ll be eighteen in five months, and I’ll get out of your hair then.”
Tears roll down her cheeks, and a sharp pain stabs me in the chest. “That isn’t true, and you’re not leaving.”
“You can’t stop me.” I sit up against the headrest and reach for my cigarette box, plucking a joint I premade and lighting it up.
“There is no smoking in the house, Dillon.” She tries to grab the joint, but I stretch my arm up out of reach.
“This is my room, and I’ll do what the fuck I like in it.”
She closes her eyes for a few seconds. When she reopens them, they are flooded with concern that only pisses me off. She should hate me. Why doesn’t she? “Is this about Ash? Because what happened to her was not your fault. Just like you’re not responsible for what happened between her and Cillian. No one has done more for your sister than you.”
“Get out of my room, Ma,” I say before taking a toke of my joint. “I have nothing to say to you.”
The rational part of my brain knows I’m taking my anger out on the wrong people, but the fucked-up part of my brain can’t stop the fury coating my skin like a blanket. No one gets it. There is nothing anyone can say that will make this better. I’m just angry twenty-four-seven. Every word, every look, and every action aggravates me. My only respite is anesthetizing myself with booze, weed, and women or losing myself in music.
Music lets me channel my pain into art. Music isn’t looking to dig into my head and understand the workings of my brain. It’s not trying to coax me into speaking when I have nothing to say. It doesn’t try to force my emotions to the surface to purge them.
Music just lets me be.
“Why are you still here?” I snap when I realize Ma is still in the room. I blow smoke circles in her face, knowing how much she hates when I do that.
“I’m beginning to think you’re possessed by some demon or evil spirit,” she says, standing. “Maybe I need to call Father Mannion.”
“Try it and see what happens.” I puff on my joint and blow more smoke in her direction. “I’ll strangle the fucker with his rosary beads before he can spout any religious crap about God and how everything happens for a reason. Fuck God. And fuck Father Mannion.” What the fuck has God ever done for me? He killed my mother to give me life and saddled me with an evil prick for a sperm donor and a selfish bastard for a brother. My own flesh and blood didn’t want me, and despite what my parents have said, I know they only took me in out of pity. Girls are happy to spread their legs for me, but none of them want me for me .
No one wants the real me.
I’m forever destined to be the reject, second best, a charity case.
“You can’t say those things about Father Mannion, Dillon. Take them back. It’ll be a black stain on your soul.”
“My soul is already pitch-black, Mother.” I crack up laughing. She’s just too funny.
“What’s so funny?” Ash asks, materializing in my doorway.
“There is nothing funny about blasphemy.” Ma plants her hands on her hips. “And your soul is not pitch-black, Dillon. It’s just troubled.”
I laugh harder as Ash steps into my room.
“Blasphemy?” Her forehead wrinkles as she looks to me to reply.
My laughter fades out, and I continue puffing my joint, refusing to look at my sister.
“I thought maybe Father Mannion could have a word with Dillon, but?—”
“Jesus, Ma. Get real. You have more chance of Dillon talking to Father Fucking Christmas than Father Mannion.”
“Language, Aisling O’Donoghue.”
Ash rolls her eyes before her gaze latches on to the joint between my fingers, and she frowns. “You seriously need to lay off that shit, Dil. It’s scrambling your brain.”
“That’s the plan.”
“Please tell me what’s wrong.” My sister crawls up onto the bed beside me as I spy Ma creeping out of the room. “I just want to help you the same way you helped me.”
“I don’t need any help.”
She places her head on my shoulder. “I know how you must’ve felt now,” she quietly says. “Please let me in.”
I swing my legs out of the bed and stand, hearing the soft thunk as her head drops onto my vacant pillow. “I just want to be left alone. Why the fuck doesn’t anyone get that?” I roar, grabbing my clothes off the floor where I left them last night and hurriedly getting dressed.
Ash stands in front of me, watching me shove my feet into my boots. “You’re breaking my heart, Dil.”
I grab my keys, wallet, phone, laptop, hoodie, smokes, and a half-empty bottle of JD and stash them in my backpack before zipping it up. Swinging the bag over one shoulder, I jerk my head up and eyeball my sister. “That wasn’t me. That was Cillian.”
She sucks in a shocked gasp, and I feel instant regret when her soft sobs follow me out of the room, but it’s not enough to go back there and apologize. My heart is heavier than usual as I leave the house, slamming the door shut behind me.
I head to the Toxic Gods outbuilding, and the first thing I do is secure the lock I bought yesterday to the door. That’ll keep people out unless I want them here. My sleeping bag and a spare pillow are already strewn across the sofa, and I plan to sleep here the next few nights. At least that way the endless questions and the pointless nagging will stop. Plonking my sorry arse on a chair, I grab my guitar case and prepare to indulge in some musical therapy. I tune up my guitar and play, losing myself in the music in between knocking back swigs of JD. I’m not sure how long I’ve been playing when I’m interrupted by a knock on the door.
“Wanker!” Jamie yells, pounding his fists on the door. “Open the fuck up!”
I set my guitar down, unlock the door, and open it a smidgeon. “You’re not coming in if you’re here to lecture me.”
“What? Fuck no.” He dangles a plastic Centra bag in my face. “I brought rolls and crisps and beer to wash it down.”
My stomach rumbles, reminding me I haven’t eaten anything since lunch yesterday. Opening the door wider, I step back to let him in. He arches a brow as I flip the lock behind him. “Where’d that come from?”
“Woodies.” I snatch the bag from his hand and rummage inside.
Jay doesn’t say anything else about it, and we devour our food in silence.
“By the way, practice is off,” he says around the last mouthful of his roll. “Aaron and Conor have the shits.”
“Nasty.”
Jay nods, swallowing the last of his food.
“Wanna jam for a bit and then get fucked up?” I ask, rolling up the tinfoil and tossing it in the bin.
“Sounds like a plan.” He clamps a hand on my shoulder and moves over to his guitar.
This is the reason Jamie is my best friend. He doesn’t push. He understands what it’s like to have shit to handle. To not want to talk about it. Like I understand if I ever want to speak about it, he will listen. If I’m gonna share what’s happened with anyone, it’d be Jay. But he’s got his own problems. He doesn’t need mine too. And in the same way, I don’t want to burden Ash with it when she’s still healing, and I can’t tell my parents because it would fucking gut them.
I know I’m being a prick, but I’m just trying to protect them.
There’s no point in all of us being mad.
I’ve got enough anger to fill the world’s oceans and then some.