“Don’t fucking call me that,” I growl. “And I’m not fucking jealous.”
“Yeah?” His brow lifts in question. “You’re not as good of a liar as you think you are.”
“Why are you such an asshole?” Frustration grows in my chest like helium blowing up a balloon. Like any moment, I’m going to explode from it. “Just yesterday—”
“Just yesterday what?” he snaps, stepping a little closer. “What, you think just because we got high together and kissed, I’m suddenly yours?” He huffs out a laugh. “You can’t be that fucking pathetic, can you?”
Knowing whatever would come out of my mouth if I tried to speak would only make it worse, I grind my molars, keeping it shut instead.
“Do me and you a favor and don’t go thinking you’re that fucking special,” he says when it’s clear I’m not responding. “You aren’t.”
My jaw aches with how hard I’m clenching it, the stinging behind my eyes infuriating as I can do or say nothing. After a moment of nothing but silent tension, I watch him smirk before shutting the door in my face.
CHAPTERELEVEN
Caspian
“Any moment might be our last.
Everything is more beautiful when we’re doomed.
You will never be lonelier than you are now.
We will never be here again.”
My eyes drop to the name, despite reading this a hundred times, practically knowing the entire book by heart.
Homer, The Iliad.
Ancient Greece has been a fascination of mine since I was a young boy. I remember after moving to the States when my dad died, I’d do everything I could to prolong me going back to the house I was supposed to call home. My aunt was always drunk or high—usually both—and the revolving door of low-life men moved so quickly, it gave me whiplash sometimes.
Down the street from my school, there was a library. I can’t even say how many countless hours I spent there over the course of the years, but it was many. I wasn’t the best reader, and was kind of a slow learner altogether. After my mom died—and even before, honestly—I missed a lot of school. I fell behind, and nobody cared enough to step in.
Until someone did.
My fourth-grade teacher—her name was Mrs. Stetson—noticed how behind I was and how much I struggled with almost everything when it came to school. This was about a year after I moved from Scotland, and she took me under her wing per se, working hard to try to get me caught up. It was the first time anybody had ever cared enough to help.
Mrs. Stetson noticed other things too, like my too small clothes with the holes and stains, and the occasional bruise that couldn’t be explained away with some lame excuse about tripping or falling. Child protective services were called. House visits were done. I barely slipped by without getting thrown into the system because of it.
I hated Mrs. Stetson for it. Oh, I loathed her for fucking years, for betraying me like that.
Looking back now, I know she was only doing what she thought was best—what she was legally mandated to do—but as a little boy with trust and abandonment issues, that was unforgivable.
Anyway, it was because of her, my love of reading bloomed. What started out as me hardly being able to put two sentences together ended with me spending umpteen afternoons in the back of the library until the streetlights came on and I had to go home.
I can’t remember if it was middle school or early in high school when we first learned about Greek mythology, but whenever it was, I was hooked immediately. The intricacies of their folklore fascinated me to no end, and I found myself wanting to know more and more and more. Those types of books became what I sought out the most during my after-school trips to the library.
What I love the most, I think, about their mythology is how the Greek heroes aren’t perfect. They’re as messed up as anyone in this world is. They were not lacking fault by any means. The wordheroused back then versus how we use the word now is astronomically different. It holds people on an almost unreachable pedestal now. Whereas heroes in those stories aren’t entirely good. They’re flawed.
Another thing I resonated with was how not every story had a happy ending. In books and movies, and even in real life, there’s this belief that if things don’t end perfectly, wrapped in a tidy bow, you don’t wind up with the guy or the girl, then life has no meaning. Basically, there’s this“what’s the point?”mentality, and it’s bullshit. Life isn’t always going to be pretty. It’s not always going to feel good or turn out the way you want.
That’s just fucking life. It’s reality.
Many late nights were also spent locked in my bedroom all throughout high school with my headphones in my ears, music blaring from some CD player I stole from another kid at school, while I read and reread the words in these books to block out the yelling, and screaming, and fighting that took place between the so-called adults in the living room. It helped me escape. Helped me forget—even if only for a few hours—how wretched my reality was.
These books, the stories, they became a comfort for me over the years. It’s the same with music. They got me through some dark fucking times. Helped see me through the impossible.
The waves lap at the shore, pulling me from my thoughts and reminding me where I am. Today’s been a shit day. Well, the last few days, if I’m being honest. The darkness has been creeping in, and the thought of spending another fucking empty evening stuck in that goddamn makeshift dorm room made me want to blow my fucking brains out. After picking at my dinner, barely eating anything, I decided to wander. Maybe getting lost will help the fog clear.
