Sage
THIRTEEN
TWO YEARS AGO
It’s been five days since Mac left. He left me in my bed. I woke up thinking he was in the bathroom or the kitchen. But he was gone. Not a trace except the blood he left behind. A fucked-up parting gift for the years he was in my life.
I looked for him everywhere. Hospitals, police stations, even broke into his trailer. But he’s gone. His phone goes straight to voicemail. No note.
Just gone.
He fucking left me. I don’t know if he’s alive or dead somewhere. I don’t know if Dave found him and finished what he started. Every day that passes with him gone leaves me more and more hollow.
He stumbled through my front door, covered in blood and tears. I couldn’t get the cut on his forehead to stop bleeding for far too goddamn long. What if he bled out?
Mom rushed back from June’s when they heard me screaming. I needed help. She was too drunk to be useful, but she tried. June did, too. All the while, Mac just rambled on and on about having to leave.
“You can come, Sage! You have to come with me,” he said like that was an option. Mom is back off the wagon. The free clinic warned her earlier that day if she didn’t stop drinking, she would go into liver failure. But she won’t fucking stop.
I couldn’t leave her alone. I can’t stop her drinking, but I can make sure she doesn’t die alone.
But now Mac is gone, and I can’t find it in me to care about Mom. She made her choices. Over and over again, she chose to drink. She chose to ignore the doctors and the warning signs.
I could have gone with Mac. I could have made sure he wasn’t bleeding out on the side of the road. Could have made sure Dave never found him.
Seven days now. Still no sign of Mac. Mom is still drinking. She’s passed out on the couch, hugging a bottle to her chest, and I resent her for it.
My whole goddamn life I’ve given her free passes. She has a disease. She has trauma that she can’t deal with sober. I swallowed down her excuses, her tears, her failures. Always helping when she fell. And what did it cost me?
Mac. The one person who had never let me down. Until now. Until he fucked off out of my life like I was nothing.
For the first time, I truly hate my mom.
I resent her with every fiber of my being.
I walk past her passed-out body and feel nothing but rage.
She should be helping me find Mac! She should be helping me deal with him being gone.
But she can’t. She once again turned to booze, turning her back on her son.
Staring down at her, I wish I had chosen Mac over this.
A loud banging shakes the front door. Muffled shouts between each hammer of a fist against the wood. Mom moans and grumbles something in her sleep, finally dropping that damn bottle.
I swing the door open, ready to fuck up whoever it is. I have so much anger I’d like to rid myself of.
Fucking Dave stands on the top step of my trailer, seething. His nostrils are flaring, and his face is splotchy and red. He’s fuming, but so am I.
“Where is my son?” he shouts, the smell of rotten teeth masked by gin slapping me in the face.
“Not here.” My voice doesn’t sound like my own. It’s empty and lethargic.
“Mac? Mac! Come out here, you fucking faggot!” Dave screams, looking past me into the trailer that only holds my mom’s shame.
“He’s not fucking here!” I scream back, pushing against his chest. He stumbles down the steps, but quickly regains his balance.
That’s when I see the gun in his trembling hand. Alarm bells ring, and a cold sweat breaks out across my body as true fear takes root.
“You’re his little butt buddy! Where the fuck is he?” He raises his arm, and I stare into the barrel of his gun. It shakes in the air between us, his finger vibrating against the trigger.
If I wasn’t so livid, if I wasn’t full of so much resentment, I might have thought this through. Might not have tempted the man with nothing to lose who was holding a gun to my head. But like Dave, I have nothing.
I lunge towards him, smacking his arm to the side, The gun skitters across the dead grass. Dave stumbles back, both of us falling hard onto the packed dirt. Air escapes from his lips when the wind is knocked from his chest.
Before he can breathe, before I have a chance to think this through, I’m punching his face.
Years of this man’s abuse of the one person who had never let me down, until now, flash through my head.
Every bruise, cut, broken bone this man caused a montage of images.
Every time Mac would confess what happened, every time he’d hide in my room because of this piece of shit.
I stop seeing features. I stop seeing blood.
All I see is the life he ruined. A life he might have taken away from me for good.
I punch him as blood bubbles out of his mouth.
I punch him as I hear the delicate bones in his nose snap and break.
I punch him as his hand tries to stop me.
He’s high and disoriented, so his instincts are slow and sluggish; just his palms aimlessly lapping against my arms and sides.
I feel the skin on my knuckles crack, my blood mixing with his. My body straddles his chest, pressing down on his lungs as he fights to breathe.
Someone starts shouting. But I can’t make out the words. I punch him until his arms fall to his sides, limp. I punch him until someone grabs my arm and forces me to stop.
That’s when I see what I’ve done. A bloody mess of a face, disfigured and grotesque, lays beneath me. I did that. My chest heaves; air burns. Someone is holding me back. Strong arms force me off of the man beneath me.
A scream blares out around me, sharp and piercing. And I stop the fight I didn’t know I was raging against the arms holding me back.
Mom. Mom stands in the doorway with her hand over her mouth, looking down at what I’ve done.
“He’s...dead.” June. I look back at Dave and find June hovering over him with her fingers on his neck. Her brown hair falls into the blood, painting the ends red.
Mom screams again. But I exhale, slow and steady.
He’s gone.
Ten days since Mac left. Three since I killed Dave. After June declared him dead, panic broke out. Someone called the cops, and they swarmed the park. Blue flashing lights brought everyone else outside. All eager to see what came next.
Everything that happened after was a blur. Like time sped up and swept me away. Flashing lights, handcuffs. Question after question. Cops demanding answers I told willingly. I have nothing else to lose, maybe life would be better behind bars.
After what felt like days, I was released. I didn’t even question it. Didn’t bother demanding any answers. I killed Dave. I should have been punished for it. But they let me go. Enough people came forward to confirm my story. Residents of the park stepped up to help clear my name.
Self-defense.
Dave’s record didn’t help him, either. A long list of crimes painted him in his true colors. He’s a piece of shit. One of the cops almost seemed relieved he was dead. No longer a burden on their shoulders.
Now I’m back home. Mom is back on the couch. Life moves on like none of it even happened. But it did. I tried to call Mac again, but his voicemail took my call. I decided that’s the last time I’ll try. The last time I’ll ever try to talk to the boy I used to know.
Someone will find him, if he’s even alive, and tell him Dave is dead.
I’m fucking done.
Four weeks after Mac left. My phone rings on the floor, vibrating against an empty bottle. Mac’s name flashes across the screen.
I don’t move to answer it. Don’t bother even reaching over to ignore. I watch and wait for the screen to go black, too drunk to feel anything beyond the rage that is constantly bubbling just under my skin.
After four weeks, my anger has only gotten worse. He left me. He ignored me. I killed for him, and he didn’t even care enough to let me know he was alive.
Mom died four days ago. I found her on the couch, covered in vomit. Her face pale and lifeless. I knew even before I checked her pulse. I knew she finally drank herself to death.
Just another person who left me. Another person who was supposed to be there for me, left. She didn’t run off like Mac did. No, she did it to herself. Years of making the same choice. Drinking over me. I’m not worth staying for. I’m not worth anything.
I feel numb. I feel like my body is moving and breathing only to spite me. The trailer still stinks of death. But I ignore it. Instead, I’ve decided to take a page out of dear old Mom’s book.
I’ll drown away the pain of my life. I’m sure salvation is here somewhere, waiting for me at the bottom. Mom could never find it, but I know I can.
“Sage? You home?” The phone finally goes black right as Luna’s voice spreads through the trailer. “Jesus,” she mumbles, followed by the sound of empty bottles rolling across the floor.
“Oh, Sage.” She’s looking down at me now. But I just look up at her from the floor. I can imagine what she sees. I’ve seen it before, too. A drunk with no hope, but enough booze.
“Ok,” she says, taking me in. She doesn’t look like she’s pitying me, or feels sorry for me, she looks annoyed. “That’s enough. We’re done with this now. We’re gonna get you clean, throw away…everything. We’re done.”
Two years later, I get in a fight. I get the shit kicked out of me because I’m drunk and have no filter. My head fucking throbs with its own heartbeat.
I walk into my trailer, and it’s silent. Only the quiet hum of the box fans that do nothing to fight the heat. The air is thick, and everything feels wrong.
I wipe the blood off my lips and hate everything. I’ve been feeling like shit for the past week. Too much stuff pent up, not enough common sense. I had hoped a good fight would ease some of the shit going on in my head.
But now walking back into my home, it all comes crashing down.
Mom’s death anniversary fucked with me. I hate that the last days of her life were filled with my resentment.
I hate that I didn’t even try to stop her from drinking anymore.
I let it happen knowing how it would end. And it’s because of fucking Mac.
Drunk and dumb, I grab my phone, dialing a number I swore I would never call again. It rings once before a voice answers.
“Sage?”
Mac. My fucking Mac. One simple word, and I’m thrown back in time. When we would run around and feel invincible, swim in the lake until we were red and breathless. The boy who gave my life possibilities. Made it less bleak, less meaningless.
“I…” What do I say? I’m shocked he answered.
“Sage! Are you okay?”
A laugh bubbles up my throat, choked and unhinged.
Am I okay? No. I haven’t been ok since you showed up at my door looking like you were dying.
I haven’t been ok since I cleaned the bloody handprints off my front door.
I haven’t been ok since Mom decided I wasn’t worth staying for.
I haven’t been ok since you. You fucking asshole.
None of that makes it out of my mouth. Instead, I sob. Great, body heaving sobs. They tear out of my throat like broken glass.
Mac answered the phone. I’m too drunk, and high, and fucked in the head to deal with that.