PROLOGUE
SAM
Twenty-four years ago.
“God, I fucking hate this town,”I mumble under my breath as I kick at a rock. It only skids about a foot in front of me before it lands in a big crack in the sidewalk, the stone joining several others sitting amongst the broken concrete.
I stop when I get to the crack, staring down at the hole full of rocks and debris, my anger spiking all over again.
Why does she have to be like that?
“Dumb bitch,” I grunt as I bend over and scoop up a handful of pellet-size stones. “Why won’t she just listen to me?”
I look around the relatively deserted street, my stare landing on what is obviously a drug deal taking place in the alley across the way before it scans to a group of women—hookers—standing under the streetlight a few blocks down. Shaking my head, I clutch the rocks tight in my palm before checking my surroundings again, and when I realize no one is paying attention to the scrawny thirteen-year-old kid in beat to hell jeans and a t-shirt from Goodwill, I snap.
I face the abandoned house to my right and start launching those rocks at the already busted or boarded up windows.
They won’t do hardly any damage, if at all, but throwing them at the piece of shit house in the piece of shit town I’ve been forced to live in my whole life might make me feel a little better about things. And if not, it’ll make my walk back tohertake that much longer.
With every rock I throw, every slight crack of the rubble against glass, my anger splinters into something more, something different that I refuse to put a name to.
Why won’t she listen to me?
Why can’t she take care of herself?
Why can’t she take care of me?
I’m out of ammunition quickly, so I search the walkway up to the house, the front yard, everywhere for anything else I can throw.
There’s a small pile of bricks in the tall grass.
Just a few, but enough to help these feelings go away.
I grab the first brick and fire it through the window on the front door.
She spends her money on drugs, spends my money on drugs.
The next goes through the living room window.
Can’t buy groceries or clothes, can’t even pay for a car.
Another sails through the living room.
Won’t get a real fucking job, just brings home one dirtbag after another.
I send one flying through the dining room.
Slept with so many men she can’t remember who my father is. Parades them around like they’re going to solve all of our problems, even when they beat her and I’m left picking up the pieces.
With tears streaming down my face—angry tears I had no idea I was shedding—I take a step back and throw the last brick as hard as I can through the upstairs bedroom window, glass exploding back into the house in a less than satisfying crash.
I’m still angry, still so mad. I took off to clear my head, just left my mom with that asshole at our house because she didn’t give a shit about what I had to say, didn’t care that her nextdategave off a really dangerous vibe. She ignored what I said, told me not to be so dramatic, then said to goplay in my roomfor a while so she could entertain her friend.
It’s like the woman has no fucking clue that I’m a goddamn teenager.
Which is why she never listens to me.
I’m just a kid in her eyes and it doesn’t matter that I’ve been right about every other jerk she’s brought into our house. I don’t know what I’m talking about so I should just keep my mouth shut.
