Chapter Twenty-Six #2
I pace around the living room, wrestling with what to do next.
What can I even do? Fucking nothing. It feels like I’m trapped with this massive piece of my life that’s been buried for God knows how long.
My mind is teetering on the brink of explosion.
My gaze wanders around the room until it lands on the hallway leading to Jesse’s room.
My dad. Even calling him that feels surreal.
I bolt toward his room, slamming the door against the wall as I enter.
I pause for a moment, taking in the familiar sight.
It looks just as it did when he left it behind before he passed.
I’ve avoided stepping foot in here until now, but I’m desperate for answers—I need something, anything.
I start digging through drawers and rummaging through his closet, searching for something that might ease my nerves.
I desperately need answers. An explanation of why and how this happened.
It feels as essential as the air I breathe.
I move to his nightstand, pulling open the top drawer but find nothing useful.
Frustration simmers beneath my skin as I continue my frantic search.
In a moment of anger, I yank the bottom drawer open, and that’s when I notice a small wooden box.
Curiosity piques as I pull it out and run my fingers over the smooth wood.
I slowly lift the lid, my brow furrowing as I take in the contents.
At the top rests a picture of my mom holding me, taken on the day I was born.
I recall Mom’s photo albums, but this picture wasn’t in any of them.
Jesse must have taken it and kept it for himself.
My eyes well up as I gaze at my beautiful mom.
She looks so happy and at peace, cradling me in her arms. The way she gazes at me is just as she always looked at me when I was growing up.
I squint my eyes, pulling the picture closer to my face.
In the distance, I see the window, and sitting on the glass is a butterfly.
A deep ache hits me in the gut. It’s a monarch butterfly—the very one Mom told me about on my sixth birthday.
I can’t believe he captured this moment.
Did he even realize its significance, and did Mom know he had this picture?
A rush of emotions sweeps over me, leaving me unable to fully articulate what I’m feeling.
I don’t have a single photo of my mom. I lost everything in the fire.
I pull the picture to my chest, pressing it tightly against me in an effort to hold back the tears.
For just a moment, I feel grateful that I now have something more than just memories of her, and I couldn’t have asked for a better picture.
I wipe my eyes and notice a folded paper lying beneath the photo.
Setting the picture aside, I grab the paper and unfold it.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, fighting to keep it together.
As I drop the paper, the weight in my chest intensifies with every passing second.
It’s a copy of the paternity test. All this time, living here, I had easy access to it.
Yet I remained completely oblivious to its presence just feet away.
Frustrated, I slap the wooden box, sending it crashing against the wall.
I grab the photo of my mom and me and storm out of the room, slamming the door behind me.
Tucking the photo into my sweats, I lean my head against the door, taking deep breaths. I know I need a distraction right now.
I make my way to the bathroom, shutting the door firmly behind me as I pull out my Zippo lighter.
My hands tremble as I lift my shirt, biting down on the hem to keep it out of the way.
Just as I flick the lid open on the lighter, Mango begins meowing and scratching at the door.
I pause for a moment, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to shut her out.
“Mango, go away!” I call out, but she keeps at it.
Frustrated, I whip the door open, and she darts away as fast as she can, retreating to my room under the bed.
Fuck this. I don’t want to be in this house right now.
With a quick grab, I snatch my keys from the kitchen counter and head straight for my bike.
I pull into my usual spot at the back of the bar, fumbling for my keys.
After a moment, I slip through the back entrance, making my way through the double doors and straight to the bar area.
I stand in front of the shelves lined with bottles, the memory of my last drink on my sixteenth birthday at the twins’ house flashes through my mind.
That night spiraled into pure chaos. A snarl escapes my lips at the thought, and without a second thought, I start grabbing bottles, chugging them down.
The warm burn of liquor and tequila fills me as I take a swig from one before smashing it to the floor, relishing the shattering sound of glass breaking into countless pieces.
Then, I grab an unopened bottle of bourbon, and instantly, he comes to mind.
My jaw clenches at the thought of him. All this time, I believed I was a monster because I was a piece of him, not realizing it was just me all along.
“AHHH!” I scream in frustration, slamming the bottle against the bar counter and shattering the stem.
I turn it around, my eyes narrowing at the sharp edges of the glass.
Shrugging off the warning in my mind, I lift the bottle to my lips, drinking deeply, feeling the burn as it slides down my throat.
The taste of bourbon mingled with iron fills my mouth.
Slowly, I wipe my lips, noticing the fresh blood that stains my hand.
My head begins to spin, the alcohol surging through my veins.
Raina occupies my thoughts, her green eyes and contagious smile etched in my mind.
I ache for her presence, but a wave of nausea washes over me, followed by a heavy sense of dread.
I turn to face my reflection in the mirror on the wall.
Who am I? A twenty-seven-year-old who feels utterly useless.
My life has been nothing but a series of blunders marked by trauma and grief.
My mental state resembles a never-ending merry-go-round, spinning with emotions that I can’t seem to grasp.
The fire that took my parents away never extinguished, it lingers within me—coursing through my veins, always ready to erupt from my fingertips.
I bite down on my lip, wincing at the sting of a fresh cut.
I look down at the bottle of bourbon in my hand.
For the first time since I was thirteen, I focus on the voices screaming in my mind.
My expression goes blank as I stumble away from the bar.
I slam the bottle down and dig into my pockets, emptying everything onto the bar in a chaotic mess.
Grabbing the bourbon again, I take another swig.
Where it once tasted bitter and difficult to swallow, now it flows down my throat like cool water.
I pull my shirt off, leaving it hanging on one shoulder and exposing my left side.
My eyes dart to my Zippo lying on the counter.
I slide it across the granite, gripping it tightly in my hand.
I glance down at the scars on my skin, marked and etched with self-inflicted burns.
My mind whispers, do it…do it, over and over.
I take a deep breath, my face like stone.
I slowly pour bourbon onto my side, watching it seep down my sweats.
I drop the bottle to the floor, breathing heavily through my nose and flipping the lid back on my Zippo.
I grimace as I hold it at my side and flick it on with my thumb.
Instantly, my entire side lights up with flame, traveling down my sweats.
I groan, watching it as it burns my flesh and begins melting away pieces of fabric.
I can feel blood dripping from my lip from biting down hard on it.
The pain is unreal. This is what my parents felt in those moments.
A sharp pain stabs at my chest, causing me to collapse onto the floor.
I scream out in pain, swatting at my pants and side.
I pant, gripping my chest, wishing I could reach through my chest cavity and rip my heart out.
My vision blurs as my head becomes light-headed and dizzy.
I blink slowly, looking down. Parts of my leg are exposed with large burns where my pants melted away.
I roll my eyes to my side. I can’t comprehend the damage I just caused.
It is an agonizing pain, but I also feel so numb.
I curl up into the fetal position, grunting at the painful movements.
I can feel myself drifting away into a thick fog.
I try to open my eyes, but they feel so heavy.
I don’t want to do this anymore. I don’t want to live, I want to die.