Chapter 7 – “making the bed” - Olivia Rodrigo #2
I fail to see the purpose in doing much of anything, and maybe where motivation and ambition die, depression thrives.
I’m not about to voice all that to my brothers. I don’t know how.
I don’t want to see the disappointment on their faces, so I glance out the window instead.
It's foggy. Cloudy. Like it may rain. This used to be my favorite type of weather, but dark skies are the equivalent to bad omens for me now, and I fear the storm raging has nothing to do with the air outside, and everything to do with tension in this room.
“You can’t ignore the question anymore, Elena,” Everett says.
“I’ve let you do that for too fucking long.
I’ve tried being patient. Supportive. Offered you a job and let you stay here and rot when you refused to accept it.
Yet, you continue to shut me—us”—he references Leo in my periphery— “out. I’m not doing that anymore.
Not only are you putting yourself at risk, but you let that man know where you live.
” His voice breaks, and it’s enough to pull my eyes back to him.
His gaze blazes through me, and I can tell he’s fighting to stay calm. “Where my fucking daughter sleeps.”
My eyes flutter closed as the sentence slams into me, reverberating through my chest. A familiar sting builds behind my lids, and all I can do is whisper, “I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry. I want you to get better.”
I can’t. I want to fucking scream.
I cannot be better. That doesn’t exist for me, and while I know it’s wrong and misplaced, I’m so goddamn angry at them for refusing to let it go. For refusing to accept whatever I’ve become now. Even my parents have given up on me. I don’t know why my brothers won’t.
“I don’t think I should stay here anymore,” I find myself saying before I’m able to give the sentiment much thought.
Do I have anywhere else to go? Not really. My parents don’t have a spare bedroom.
“Do you want to come stay with me, Lena?” Leo asks.
I shake my head.
I can’t stay there either. My relationship with Darby is strained—nonexistent would be the better word for it, actually. Plus, they’re about to have a baby.
I don’t have enough money for a place of my own, and I have no prospects of a job or a finished manuscript in the near future.
In short, I’m fucked, but I can’t be here anymore.
I can’t handle being the outsider in this family dynamic.
I can’t handle breaking my brother’s heart every time I fail at being anything other than dead inside.
I can’t promise I won’t keep fucking up, and now that my messes are a threat to the ten-year-old girl I’ve become quite fond of, I can’t bear that guilt either.
“Where are you going to go, Elena?” Everett asks. “I want you here, I promise you, I do. I just need you to try and be better.”
I shake my head, my vision tunneling, darkness closing in around me. The room feels like it’s shrinking—the ceiling falling down, the walls closing in. My breathing is labored, I know it’s a panic attack, and I need to get away.
“I need…” I set my coffee on the counter next to the bottle of vodka I really wish I could take with me. “I need air.”
Brushing past both my brothers, I don’t bother grabbing a coat as I toss the front door open and step out into the rain.
It’s the kind that falls in sheets with the wind, like a constant mist blanketing the world.
A chilled sheen of moisture coats my skin as I take off down the driveway and start running.
Running from my issues like I always have. A familiar burn emanates in my chest, a brief reprieve from the emotional pain I’m trying to outrun. Breath escapes my mouth in short, rapid bursts, which are preferable to the choked sobs of panic.
I’m wearing cotton shorts that are already soaking through, and a It’s always sunny in Pacific Shores crewneck I got from Heathen’s, which is hilarious considering the weather right now. My worn-out Converse have no business slapping against this slick pavement, but I don’t stop.
I don’t know where I’m going or why, only focusing on the rain on my skin, sea air in my lungs, the ache in my legs, and the burn in my chest. I welcome them as I close my eyes, hitting a comfortable rhythm and allowing my body to take over my brain, leading me wherever it wants to be most.
Water drips into my eyes, causing me to squint.
I’m hardly able to see where I’m going, but I can just make out the street sign ahead of me that reads Strand.
That same aching familiarity erupts in my chest again.
The intricate sense of knowing that if I turn right at that corner, I’ll be led to the safety I so desperately need.
It’s not safety I deserve.
It’s a selfish craving, and it’ll inevitably lead to the ruin of more than just myself.
Yet, as I reach the intersection of Pacific and Strand, I make the turn.
I continue running, faster. More urgently.
Until I finally stop, hands on my knees as I heave and swallow gulps of air.
Heavy drops of water form on my lashes, still dripping into my eyes and blurring my vision further, but I know exactly where I am.
I’ve been here before, just once.
Just like the last time, I hate myself as I do it, but my feet move of their own accord. Up the drive and to the steps, until I’m in front of that olive-colored door. I’m soaked to the bone, a puddle already forming at my feet, my hair a mop in front of my face.
I rap my knuckles against the wood, waiting with bated breath as footsteps echo on the other side, but that same sense of knowing—that guiding wind—wraps itself around me.
A word that’s become foreign in recent years flashes through my head—safe.
It rings clear as the lock turns, the hinges creak, and his face appears in front of me again.