18. Preston
PRESTON
For as long as I can remember, there’s been a buzz that lives in my mind.
A loud whine eternally buried in my brain, lurking behind every word, every action, and every waking moment.
My brain and I call it the static.
You know, that thing that happens when you hear your own thoughts. Like a stream of consciousness of sorts, like you’re having a conversation with your alter ego before talking in the real world.
Only, for me, it’s loud and won’t shut up, not even during sleep. That time is its playground.
Let’s make Preston’s nightmares as action-heavy as we can, says the static to the brain, flipping between the channels, pulling on the strings as if I’m a marionette.
Sometimes, I think the static and my brain are one and the same.
Because I certainly don’t want to be stuck with the constant annoying buzz that never lets up unless I’m heavily medicated.
And by heavily, I mean it has to be a dose large enough that I can barely move my sluggish body around.
To kill the static is to kill my brain or douse it so much, it won’t be able to make any noise.
Which is what I’ve done tonight, swallowing the strong medication reserved for my extra-severe episodes.
Jude would kill me.
Kane, too, probably.
They don’t like it when I take these special concoctions when I’m not in their presence.
Jude would actually rather take me on a ride or a killing spree than watch me be a zombie.
“You don’t like it either, do you?” he told me when I asked him why he’s so against my magic potion, made by his brother, no less.
“You’re clearly uncomfortable with those meds because they practically erase your inhibitions and make you defenseless, which is bound to trigger your traumatic memories. ”
“The whole point of Julian’s special meds is that I feel nothing, so, technically, no trauma shit happens.”
“Technically doesn’t mean fully.” He grabbed my shoulder. “I want to be here when you take them, Pres. That way, you know no one will fucking touch you under my watch.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Promise me.”
“Aw, you love me that much?”
“Promise, Preston.”
“Fine.”
Obviously, I broke the promise, but listen, technically, I didn’t take the meds unsupervised. Technically, I hinted to Dr. Duret that I would need a crutch today. You know, to deal with a certain anniversary I loathe with everything in me.
“How about finding loved ones, Preston?” she blabbered. “Like Jude? Kane? Your father?”
Jude, nah. He’s dealing with his own shit, looking like the walking dead lately, and I’m not a kid.
Kane is unavailable and busy chasing Delaware in another state. Dude even missed a game, which is a real blasphemy that should be recorded in history books.
As for Dad, I’d rather choke on my own vomit than let him see me like this.
He already thinks I’m the most failing failure to have ever failed, and I’m not confirming his theories. Thank you very much.
He’s been calling me nonstop since this morning and has probably sent Lenin to drag my ass back, but they can’t find me here.
At the top of the cliff.
I’m parked so close to the edge, I can feel the wind rocking the car as I take a sip from the bottle of my beloved Jack Daniels.
Because Jude is right, I’m not completely numbed out—at least, not yet—and alcohol helps dull that grating noise scraping at the edges of my brain.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
On and on, it mimics the ruthless howl of the wind in the dark emptiness.
It’s like a song stuck in my head, but it’s harsh and wrong, and I can’t get rid of it no matter how much I douse my throat with alcohol.
I pull out a lighter from my pocket. It’s glittery black and has the initials V.D.A. engraved in a silver color that shines under the soft light of the car.
Valérie D. Armstrong.
My entire childhood, I watched Mom use this lighter to smoke her dainty cigarettes. She said it was a gift from Dad before he threw her away.
“You were one bitter woman, Ma.” I scoff, my voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater. “Till the very end, you never admitted that you and Dad just didn’t work out.”
She was a French socialite who loved a luxurious lifestyle and fine wine. He was…well, Dad. Never smiled as much as her, never loved life as much as she did. Never sang spontaneously around the house.
Probably never loved money as much either. Power, yes. Money, no. It doesn’t matter to him, not really.
He was born in it; she wasn’t. I later found out that she fought her way to the top after escaping an abusive childhood in France that she never talked about.
Mom was beautiful, having bestowed me with her ethereal looks. After the divorce, she found countless men at her doorstep, all ready to gift her with her luxurious lifestyle.
But no matter what she had, it was never…enough.
Dad gave her a mansion for us to live in as well as a generous alimony. Mom said he didn’t give us even zero-point-five percent of his fortune and that he just didn’t love us enough, because he wanted to get rid of us and start a new family.
The men who came into her life after my dad never measured up to him in wealth or power, and although she got whatever she wanted from them, she wasn’t satisfied. I had to hear about it as she drowned herself in her favorite bottle of wine.
They weren’t rich enough. They weren’t generous enough. Just not enough.
Even if she’d gone back to Dad—whom she hated because he was the only man who told her no—she would’ve been dissatisfied with him after a while.
It was the reason for their divorce in the first place. She kept pushing him for more, nagging and starting fights on the regular. She’d shout the house down in her drunken episodes, waking me up from sleep.
I used to watch from the corner of the stairs as their endless fights dragged on and on.
Until Dad had enough and let her go.
She never forgave him for that. Until the day she died.
“He’s the reason I’m like this,” she told me once, crying over her own vomit after I put my fingers in her mouth.
That’s what I learned to do when she got too drunk. I had to make her vomit, then take her to her room and help her wash her hair. After that, I’d tuck her in as she mumbled words I couldn’t understand.
“I love you, Preston, you know that, right?” She sniffled and stroked my hair. “Mon petit chou…mon trésor.”
My sweet little one.
My treasure.
That’s what she always called me.
That’s what made me stay by her side even though sometimes, she was too busy feeling sorry for herself, getting drunk, and chasing a high that never came.
And when she finally saw me that night exactly fifteen years ago, broken and just…an empty fucking shell, she couldn’t bear it.
I lean back against the car seat, staring at the lighter.
The images from that day coming in small lightning flashes.
My jaw hurts as hushed, broken grunts fill my ears and the stench of cologne and overpowering mint gags me. A brick sits on top of me, completely immobilizing me.
But it’s okay.
Because I’m staring at the ceiling, at those little stars in my room. They look like me sometimes, far away and disconnected and just…not here.
Not sure why, all of a sudden, my dead eyes stare at my door. I used to look at my door weeks ago.
When this brick came to my room the first time and I couldn’t breathe.
“Maman?” I called out stupidly that time, thinking she’d come to check on me.
But it wasn’t Mom.
Not that time.
Not the next.
I guess a part of me knew she’d come for me at some point.
She’d know.
She’d feel it.
Jude says moms know. Moms should know.
She’d save me.
I waited and waited, and she finally came.
Today.
She’s standing right there in her white silk robe, her face nearly turning the same color as the fabric.
I’ve always wanted Mom to come, but in this moment, I wish she hadn’t.
I’ve never seen that look in Mom’s eyes. Not even the day I left Dad’s house with her, not even when her friend died.
Her beautiful face blanches, her eyes becoming hollow as she trembles uncontrollably, two lines of tears sliding down her cheeks.
My mom is crying, and all I want to do is to go to her.
Help her.
But I can’t move.
All I can do is watch as she walks toward me, her legs barely holding her as tears stream down her cheeks and onto her neck.
In one single motion, she grabs a lamp from the side of the bed and hits him—the brick that was on top of my chest.
She hits him so hard, letting out a roar that pierces my ears, a roar I can still hear in my dream.
A roar that will deafen me till the day I die.
She hits him, my mom, and he falls forward, then smacks his head on the headboard and drops sideways to the floor.
Mom gathers me in her arms and sobs uncontrollably in my hair.
“I’m sorry,” she says, her voice intertwined with hiccups. “Pardonnez-moi, mon chou (forgive me, my darling)…so sorry…so, so sorry.”
She repeats that over and over and over again in English, in French—mostly in French—her words barely audible.
But it doesn’t matter. Because Mom finally saved me.
I wrap my arms tighter around her, burrowing my nose in her chest as she crushes me closer.
Mom smells of wine and her delicate Jasmine perfume. She smells of safety and love.
“It’s okay,” I whisper. “I’m okay, Ma. Stop crying, please?”
That only makes her cry harder, her sobs echoing in the air.
I don’t know how long we stay like that, but eventually, she carries me out of my room, locks it with a key, and takes me to her room.
But she doesn’t stop crying as she takes me to the shower and washes me or as she tucks me in bed and kisses my forehead.
She wipes her eyes, but a new wave of tears appears and she breaks down again.
I wipe her eyes. “Pleure pas, Ma. Je t’aime (Don’t cry, Mom. I love you).”
“Je t’aime plus fort, mon petit trésor (I love you more, my little treasure). Mom knows the problem now. Go to sleep. Mommy will take care of it.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Can you sing me a lullaby?”
“‘Fais dodo’?”
I nod excitedly. “Yes!”