18. Preston #2
She hugs me close to her quaking chest, her fingers stroking my damp hair. Her voice fills the room and my ears like my favorite memories. “Fais dodo, mon petit trésor (Sleep now, my little treasure)…”
That was the last time I saw my mother.
Alive, at least.
The following day, I woke up to find Dad by my bedside.
He also hugged me while wearing that guilty expression. Similar to the one Mom had.
I didn’t like it.
Mom and Dad never hugged me that much. Especially Dad.
Then I realized he did that because Mom died in an accident.
It wasn’t an accident—she killed herself by swallowing a bottle of pills.
The note I later found only read, “I’m sorry, Preston. Really sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me one day.”
Dad didn’t give me that note, Grandma did, years later when I started acting out—because she hates me for being a failure.
As she handed me that note, she said, “You already killed your mother. Don’t even think about ruining your father’s life as well.”
Dad still thinks I believe Mom died of alcohol poisoning, which is the story he promoted. He probably doesn’t want me to blame myself for her death.
Or maybe he cares about the family’s image.
Doesn’t matter, though. Because whether it was alcohol poisoning or suicide, I knew I was the reason.
She said she’d take care of it, and her method to do so was taking herself out.
Because she couldn’t help me.
No one can.
Not Mom, not Dad.
Not the doctors.
Not the pills.
Well, the pills can make me drown.
For a while.
My grip loosens from around the bottle of alcohol and it falls by the passenger seat, spilling on the floor.
I know I should reach for it, but my body’s floating, outside, like those free stars on the ceiling of my childhood bedroom.
Floating and floating and…
Gone.
Like my mom.
Maybe I should go talk to her.
Hey, Mom. Why did you leave me?
You said Dad left me but that you’d never do the same, so why…?
Am I that disgusting?
Am I that…unsightly?
If I drive down this cliff, maybe I’ll find her at the bottom, then maybe she’ll tell me why she was that terrified when she saw me.
If I could go back, I’d lock the door so she wouldn’t see and decide to leave me.
I would be quiet—I’d be so quiet—even if it hurt. Even if I couldn’t breathe.
I would…save her from seeing me like that.
My phone lights up, and I grab it with lethargic movements and a shaky hand.
Jude?
Maybe he needs to come find me or I’ll really drive this car over the cliff.
Instead of Jude, I see another name flashing on the screen. The one I so theatrically named The Fucker Who Blocked Me.
I should decline, but I swipe to accept, putting the phone on speaker because I can’t be bothered to lift it to my ear.
“You bought me a bike instead of talking to me?” he asks as soon as I pick up.
“Hmm.”
“Would it kill you to actually have a conversation instead of throwing money at me?”
“That’s all I have. Money.”
“You sound like my father.”
“Hello, daddy issues. Let’s start a support group.”
He pauses, and I think he’ll hang up and block me again. That’s what he’s been doing over the past two weeks.
Just getting on my fucking nerves.
He made me get used to the fuckery he started, then pulled the rug from beneath my feet.
I know I shouldn’t care. I’m the one who always pushed him away. I should be celebrating that he finally left me alone.
But over the past two weeks, I’ve been feeling so hollow, not even Lenin’s beating sessions have been able to fill the emptiness.
All because this prick erased me as if I never existed.
It fucked me up in ways I don’t fully understand. Yes, I know it’s my pathological attachment issues, but I shouldn’t have them for Marcus.
He’s a nobody.
“What’s wrong?” he asks, his voice losing the bite from earlier.
“Nothing’s wrong. I’m just having an awesome party with all the girls I fucked, which is a lot, by the way. Marcus who? Don’t know him.”
“You sound different.”
I chuckle, but even that takes too much energy. “I’m just high.”
“Where are you?”
“Are you gonna come find me? Wow. I’m so touched, I thought you preferred to block me.”
“Where are you, Preston?”
“On the cliff overlooking Graystone Ridge. You can see the whole town from here. Whoa.” I stare out at the blurry lights. “Mom can’t see this anymore, you know.”
There’s movement on his end. “Why not?”
“She’s dead, genius. Killed herself because I’m such a failure.”
“You? A failure? I thought you were the best man to have ever been born. God’s gift to humans.”
“I’m not. I just say that in case I believe it one day.”
Fuck, why am I telling him this?
The sound of an engine reaches me from the other end, and I pause. “Is that the bike?”
“Yeah. I want to test it out before I return it to you.”
“Don’t return it. I burned yours and you didn’t destroy my car like I thought you would, so…yeah. Jude said that bike was your only mode of transportation.”
“And you felt sorry for me?”
“Maybe.”
“Will you throw money at me every time you feel sorry for me?”
“If you want.”
I lean against the steering wheel, my head twisted to the side so I can look at the phone. Then I turn the volume all the way up because the sound of his gruff voice makes me feel like I’m floating among those stars again.
Maybe this time, that small safety won’t disappear like Mom did.
“You’ll be my sugar daddy?” he asks with a bit of a smile in his voice.
“Sure.”
“I’m extremely expensive.”
“I’m rich. I can afford you.”
“I don’t want your money, baby.”
“Then what do you want?”
“You.”
My heart squeezes and I frown. Need the doctors to look this shit up. Can someone have heart cancer?
Heart malfunction?
“I thought we were done,” I whisper, my voice barely audible.
“Do you want that?”
“You’re the one who ended it, prick. But I knew you’d come back. You can’t resist me, can you?”
“No.”
I swallow and remain quiet. I only said that to provoke him, but the low spoken word makes my stomach flip.
Christ.
This isn’t only because of the drugs, is it?
“Preston? Are you there?”
“Hm.”
“If I’m coming back to you, it needs to be different this time.”
“Different how?”
“You can’t keep hiding from me and expecting me to be satisfied with scraps of you.”
“It’s just sex, Marcus. Why do you have to make it complicated?”
“Complicated?”
“Yes, complicated. Feelings are fucking complicated. Can’t we…” I breathe harshly. “Can’t we just have what we have?”
“No.”
“Why the fuck not?”
“Because I’m not your booty call. You don’t get to discard me the moment you’re done with my body.”
“But that’s what we are! You also think of me as your booty call.”
“No, I don’t.”
“N-no?”
“Correct. No. I want more of you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“I do.”
“You don’t even know me. You don’t know that I…” don’t exist.
I stopped existing a long time ago. I’m just Preston without a soul. Preston failed reboot. Preston made of nothing
“Don’t know what?”
The words choke me, never finding their way out.
The air thickens. It’s not air anymore—it’s water. Dense and slow, it slides down my throat when I inhale. My body moves through it, sluggish and wrong, the world muffled like it’s happening under the surface.
The phone falls from my hand and clatters to the floor. I try to reach out to it, but I don’t move.
I can’t.
I’m being flooded by thick, muddy water as the static ignites in my brain.
“Preston?”
I can’t breathe.
“Fuck… Preston, can you hear me?”
I open my mouth, but only a strangled sound comes out as I gurgle on the water filling my throat.
“Preston! Say something.”
Stay away.
Stay the fuck away from me.
I look up and I can almost see them, the stars amongst which I used to float and float.
The stars I used to see Mom’s and Dad’s faces on, hoping they’d come and get me.
Help, Mommy.
Help me, Daddy.
Help.
It hurts.
Help.
It really hurts.
Help.
I can’t breathe.
Someone please help me breathe.
I want…to breathe.
“Mon trésor (my treasure)…”
I gasp on water as Mom stands in front of the car in her white nightgown, tears sliding down her cheeks. She’s in the dark, my mom, barely visible within the shadows.
With a shaky finger, I flip open the lighter so I can see her better.
It falls from my hand, and a small fire surrounds me, its heat licking my cheeks.
“Mom, I’m here. Mom…”
“I’m sorry,” she whispers, reaching her hand toward me. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s okay… I can live with you, Mom. Dad doesn’t love me, so we can love each other…”
Her tears turn into blood, dripping over her collarbones, soaking her nightgown in red.
“Mom…”
“If you hadn’t been born, I wouldn’t have died.”
“Mom…?”
Her face turns solid red, and I scream as I hit the gas. “Mom!”
“Preston!”