“Why should you give them anything? They’ve never done anything for you. The reason why you haven’t told them anything is that you know they’ll crucify you if they did.”
“They should,” I whisper. “I would if I were them.”
“I’ll never understand you. I don’t get the guilt.”
“It’s called a conscience asshole. Wanting to be a good person.”
“If being a good person does that...” He gestures to me with a scowl. “I’ll keep right on with my asshole ways. I’d rather be happy than a good person. No regrets, baby.” I don’t even acknowledge him. When he says things like this, it makes me wonder how we’ve been friends for so long. I guess it’s because he’s always been there. No matter what or when or even where I’m at, when I’ve needed him, he’s been right there. “Fine,” he huffs when he realizes I’m not going to say anything. “You want to tell them all your dirty little secrets, Mads? Then start at the beginning.”
I swallow hard.
I have always said I remember everything. That’s not entirely true. I don’t remember a lot after my trip in the pool. I lost a bit. No one really thought much of it. Doctors told my parents that most kids don’t remember much of that time in their lives as adults anyway, so they shouldn’t worry about long-term effects. But everything from shortly after is clear as the day it happened.
God, I don’t want to do this. I’ve spent my life avoiding. Refusing to deal with the shit I have done and the chaos I have caused. I do everything I can to keep those memories from surfacing because they make it hard to breathe.
Logically, I know I’m probably just overdramatic. Everyone has bad shit happen to them, right? It’s part of life. It’ssupposedto be how we handle it that makes us who we are. That’s probably accurate because I am the guy that hears and sees things that aren’t there, lies to his friends, and hides everything.
Maybe telling them everything serves no purpose at all. It could be that I’m just attention-seeking right now, I guess. I mean, I’ve gone this long. What difference would it make now?
No.I need to tell them,so they understand what’s coming has nothing to do with them. They loved me enough. They were there for me as much as I allowed. I don’t want them to spend their lives wondering if they could’ve done anything differently.
All of this? It’s on me. It was never their job to take care of me. It was my job to take care of all of them, and I’ve fucked that up too.
But I’m done failing them. I’m done burdening them with worry and fear. It’s time for a clean break from me and the damage I inflict.
“The beginning,” I sigh. “That’s a lot.”
“If you’re going to finally tell them what a colossal fuck up you are, then you may as well start there.”
“How are we friends?” I grunt at him.
“Because I’m the only person that will tell you the truth. You, Maddox, are a complete screw-up that lets everyone down and leaves destruction in your wake. But I’ll never abandon you for it. I’m always along for the ride.”
“Looks like this is going to be a long night,” I tell him as he hands me the notebook and pen.
I start to set it on the table but freeze. I look up to see the boy, no longer bouncing the ball, but staring at me with a smirk. I rough my hands through my hair, shutting my eyes and wishing the kid away.
“Dude, he’s not real,” Bryan laughs. “Maybe if you hadn’t baked your brain so hard for so long, you wouldn’t have these problems.”
He’s probably right. Except the noise has always been there. That could just be my mind always running at lightspeed.
“I know he’s not real.” My teeth grind that I even have to say it. My fists clench because even though I know the kid isn’t real, I cannot physically make myself put the notebook on the table as long as he’s there.
“Fuck this.” I push away from the table, taking the notebook and pen with me. “You go sit over there,” I bark out.
“Come on, man,” he taps the spot beside him. “I won’t bite much.”
“Move, Bryan.”
He chortles as he gets off the bed. “Man, thought you liked it both ways. I’m feeling a little insulted here.”
I roll my eyes as I throw myself on the bed. I lean back against the headboard, crossing my feet at the ankles as I open the notebook. I look up to Bryan,who’s sitting at the table now, and the damn kid that won’t go away. “You’re not my type,” I tell him as I pull the cap off the pen.
“Damn, that’s cold. Here I thought I was everyone’s type.”
“No one is everyone’s type.” I look down at the blank pages of the notebook. My hands shake as I put the pen to paper, ready to tell all the people I love my story.
My life has been a series of tragedies. Heartbreak and loss have followed me—stalked me like a predator. But it’s always come by my own hand. I’ve disappointed the people who mean the most to me at every turn.
