Chapter 27 Carrie #3
“This needs to stop.”
“Carrie, I—”
“It ends today,” I continue. “You aren’t safe anymore.”
“It was a candle,” she stammers.
“No, Mom. It wasn’t a candle. It was all this stuff.”
I swing my foot at the nearest bundle of newspapers, and then a second, and then a third—it won’t change anything, I know.
But it feels good. For years now, I’ve followed the same old pattern—clearing away in silence, tossing stuff without a word, cleaning up on autopilot.
And I just can’t do it anymore. I don’t know whether it’s the fire or something else, but things are different this time.
I can’t keep my feelings bottled up anymore.
Initially, I was hoping this was just a phase she was going through—a dark patch while she got over my dad.
But nothing has changed. Nothing ever will.
I stomp upstairs, the floorboards groaning under my weight.
I fling open the door to my bedroom and grab my phone, firing off a message to my dad.
No punctuation, no room for second-guessing—just an outpouring that comes straight from the gut.
Once I’m all out of words, I hit delete and stare down into my hand for a moment.
I look up, taking in my bedroom. It’s the only part of the house that’s been spared the flames, but my absence the past few weeks gave her an in—the whole room is full of her clutter, sealed packages and unopened parcels shoved into every corner. And that’s when I crack.
I start reaching for boxes, heaving them over the banister and down to the ground floor one by one, not even caring whether the neighbors hear, slamming the door behind me once I’m done, sliding down to the floor as my mind races.
It’s like there are two warring parts of me, and I don’t recognize either of them.
Slowly but surely, everything I’ve been struggling to ignore is coming crawling out into the daylight.
The one guy I wish I’d never met is turning out to be the one person I now desperately need beside me.
The one guy who scares me—because he gifted me a glimpse of what I could be if I could just let go and create space for the spark between us to blossom.
A guy who scares me—because when I picture life without him, now that I’ve rejected him, I feel so lost and cold.
Why couldn’t he just be the asshole I was expecting him to be?
Why does he have to be kind of great? Why am I suddenly so into him?
I flick back through my memory—all the awful things I didn’t mean but said anyway.
The only authentic part of that whole showdown was my fear, and now the regret is just as real. I was looking for excuses to run away.
“Apple doesn’t fall far, huh?” I mutter to myself.
I shake my head, remembering all the bullshit excuses Dad threw in Mom’s face as he was stepping out the door.
A wave of hysteria washes over me. I’m like the perfect, fucked-up combination of both my parents, and as the realization lands, anxiety edges at my sides. This won’t be my first panic attack, but it’s been nearly a year since my last one.
I crawl over to my bedside table, fumbling for a paper bag.
I bring it to my lips, breathing in and out, watching it swell and crumple in time, taking in the comforting crinkling sound and engaging in a little light self-loathing as I wait for my pulse to settle.
I’m everything I hate—a bitter, stomach-churning cocktail of Mom’s and Dad’s worst sides. Tears spring to my eyes.
I can’t believe it’s taken years for this to dawn—by trying so hard not to end up like my mom, I’ve backed myself into a dark, lonely corner.
I thought that by keeping love at arm’s length, I could fend off the trauma of the divorce and the effect it had on Mom, but it all just burrowed into my heart, instead.
I tried to lose myself in fairy tales—Prince Charmings and happy endings.
I tried to protect myself from anything that even hinted at the possibility of feelings.
I built a wall around me with books, just the way she did with her boxes.
I sealed myself off from the world for no good reason.
You’re no different from her. You do exactly what she does—and for what?
The more I think about it, the more I get the sense I’m fucking up my life. I play it safe so I don’t get hurt. And I get hurt because I play it safe. I’m a prisoner of my own making, and I’m the worst. I’m stupid, and cowardly. And I miss Donovan.
I fucked up. Despair lands over my anger, settling into the cracks. I break. I sit there sobbing with my back to the door until my body has nothing left to give, and I drag myself over to my bed.
I DON’T KNOW HOW LONG I sleep, but by the time my swollen eyelids flutter open, the daylight is streaming in.
As my senses sharpen, my chest tightens.
There’s no Don here beside me. I don’t want to be that girl.
I want… What do you want, Carrie? It suddenly hits me—I know exactly what I want, and I refuse to let myself be scared to admit it anymore.
I don’t know how I’m going to fix this yet, and I don’t know whether I even can.
But one thing I do know is that I can’t deny how my heart is swelling as I leap out of bed and rush to my desk, grabbing a pen and notebook and scraping out my stool as I set about mapping out the beginnings of a plan.
I need to deal with Mom, I know. But first, I need to make things right and fix the epic fuckup I made yesterday.