PROLOGUE
Segan
Age Nineteen
Ifucking hate funerals. They’re sad and depressing and filled with people who like to pretend they give a shit. People like Gertrude Moss, who’s three tables over, clutching her used tissue and crying. They always go on about how missed they’ll be. How they had“so much potential”and were“such a caring person.”It’s always bullshit. All of it.
Nobody ever truly believes they were caring, sweet, with so much potential. Not in situations like this, at least. I’d be willing to bet my last dollar that nearly everybody in here knew this day was coming. The signs were there.
It’s been one week. Seven fucking days since my world was rocked in more ways than one, and the anger I feel boiling inside of me hasn’t subsided any. I wake up angry, go to bed angry. It’s the only emotion I feel. That, and relief. But that’s twisted to say, isn’t it? Nobody should feel relief when a loved one dies. It’s not something I’d ever say out loud.
But I am relieved.
Someone slides into the seat beside me, bringing me back to the here and now, but I don’t bother looking to see who. The scent of motor oil, leather, and tobacco that wafts over to me is all the answer I need. My eyes stay trained ahead while I pretend to listen to the man upfront speak to the room about his precious child and the demon that stole her from him. His alligator tears and the crack in his voice keep me distracted from the stormy gray eyes boring into the side of my head, silently commanding me to meet them.
Heaving a sigh when he realizes I’m not giving in, he rests his arms on the table, looking ahead at the speaker still going on about his loss. “How’re you holding up?” he asks softly so the people around us can’t hear.
“I’m fuckin’ great, man. Thanks for asking.” My tone’s dripping with sarcasm, but it doesn’t deter him.
“You look like shit,” he retorts, his raspy, rough voice always sounding like he just woke up.
Glancing over, I narrow my eyes at him, finally meeting his gaze. “Yeah, well, I’m fuckinggrieving,” I spit out harshly. “Forgive me for not looking my best.”
He's watching me with tired and puffy eyes, wearing his signature leather jacket and Levi 501s—the same ones I’ve seen him wear hundreds of times. Leaning in, he wraps his hand painfully around my forearm, the contact sending a shock wave through my veins. “How long’s it been going on, Segan?”
I rip my arm away from his grip, the lady next to me turning to see what’s going on. “First of all, don’t fucking touch me. And secondly, get your fucking facts straight.I’mnot the person you should’ve been questioning.”
“You expect me to believe that?” he presses through gritted teeth.
“I don’t give a shit what you believe. I don’t have to explain myself to you.” Standing up abruptly, the chair legs squeak against the linoleum floor, and everyone’s eyes drag toward me. “Fuck this, I’m out.”
“Segan,” he growls at my retreating form, but it’s too late. I’m already pushing through the double doors with my mind made up.
My house, which is just a tiny in-law shack behind my boss’s place, is only a few blocks from the church where the service is being held. It takes all of five minutes to walk there, and when I plop down onto my mattress on the floor, I stare up at the ceiling as if it holds all the answers.
Someone once said the cure for pain is in the pain. In order toheal, you mustendure. What’s funny about that, though, is I’ve been experiencing bone-deep, agonizing pain for as long as I can remember, with no end in sight. At a young age, I accepted that pain; I became one with it. My whole life has been one bad decision after another, and I’ve made peace with that. At least, as best as one can. I’m not the guy who gets his happily ever after. I’ll never be the guy who wakes up on a Sunday to fit in an early morning jog before hitting the farmers’ market with my partner, hand in hand, while the sunlight radiates happiness into our souls.
Nah, my soul is tattered. It’s broken, and as dark and empty as my black, barely beating heart. It’s a never-ending abyss that provides no solace and no redemption. And as I think back to one week ago when I stood over that ashy blue corpse, I realize how meaningless my life has been. How pathetic it is.
Maybe it’s all the shit I’ve endured in my nineteen years on Earth that’s left me jaded, or maybe it’s the obscene amount of Oxy coursing through my bloodstream on a constant, but as I remember that day, remember what the body looked like, and remember the medical examiner zipping up the limp, lifeless body in a white bag, I feel nothing.
No grief.
No sadness.
No moral outrage at a life lost way too soon.
Nothing.
Well, except maybe anger. Always anger. A blood boiling type toward the body that’s cold and rotting by now. Anger for what’s done. Anger at the knowledge that had I never made the choices I’d made, none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be here wondering why I’m not sad or upset or outraged, and wishing somehow the Grim Reaper came for me, too. Because the final end seems more ideal than living with what’s to come.
A living Hell.
Part One
Theme Song:
Blood Sportby Sleep Token
