My mind drifts back to Quinn. Her bright smile and beautiful eyes had me hooked nearly instantly. Even when she was sad, she still exuded so much warmth that I found myself drawn to wherever she was.
Since I was seventeen, I have been adamant that I would never move on from Zoey. If I’m honest, I never tried. It felt like it would be a betrayal after I so royally fucked everything the way I did. But Quinn got under my skin.
I snatch the notebook off the bed, ripping out everything I just wrote. Maybe none of that does matter. I am so fucking damaged. Something inside of me is irrevocably broken.
That’s what Quinn didn’t understand. She accepted the mood swings as part of my recovery. She had no clue that it reallywasjust me. I hated every time I hurt her, but I hated every time she forgave me even more.
I hate it every time anyone forgives me for my fuck ups. They should hate me for the shit I’ve put them all through. I wish they would, just once, tell me what I already know. Why they continue to accept me, I’ll never understand. I refuse to drag anyone else down with me any longer.
“Fine,” I relent to Bryan’s constant demands. “Let’s go.”
“Seriously?” he jumps up, shocked that I’m finally agreeing. Though, he doesn’t give me a chance to respond before he’s shoving my bags into my hands.
“Yeah,” I tell him as I take the bag from his hands. My eyes narrow as I feel something wet hit the back of my neck. I look up to see water veining on the ceiling. “What the hell?” I mutter, walking to the window.
I pull back the curtain to see a downpour going on outside. “When the hell did it start raining?”
Bryan looks at me as if I’ve lost it. “Dude, it’s not raining.”
I shut the curtain and go to the door. I swing it open so he can see the hurricane-force rains and winds. I spread my arm wide toward the storm. “What do you call that?”
“If I were a fisherman, I’d call it a bluebird day.” He tilts his head to the side with a raised brow. “Seeing things now, buddy?” The condescension in his voice is thick.
“Bryan, it’s fucking pouring,” I insist. “I am not driving this bike when it’s storming.”
“Are you joking? Maddox, it is not raining. You can’t get wet from your imagination.”
I drag a hand down my face, wondering if he’s right. Have my delusions escalated?
Fuck.
It doesn’t matter. The fact is, real or not, I cannot go out there. I can’t leave this tiny room.
I fall onto the bed with my head pounding. The buzzing in my ears gets louder. I wish I’d brought my guitar. My eyes get heavy, and I let the effects of the rain and heroin drag me under.
Two months ago
I walk from the gym of Bastian’s apartment into the kitchen. It’s what I’ve done all day for the last five days since he won’t let me out. He’s got his guard dogs at all the exits just waiting on me to try to escape.
It’s pissing me off. I’m on the verge of climbing the walls.
I walk to the fridge to grab a bottle of water. As I lean against the counter, I stare across his massive home at nothing. Walls. Walls. More walls.
My eyes begin to blur. The noise starts to buzz. My fingers tighten around the bottle until the contents spill out as I listen to the thundering in my ears. The walls begin to close in around me.
I slam my eyes shut, knowing it’s not real. No matter how it seems, it is not real.
I focus on my breathing. I may hate psychiatrists and psychologists but one thing I know for sure helps is to focus on my breathing. In and out, I listen to the sound of my breaths. I concentrate on the rise and fall of my chest.
My chest squeezes tight as my heart pounds against my ribs, threatening to burst through the skin.
Breathe, fucker, breathe.
It’s not working.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Sweat starts to trickle down my back. My shaking knees give out,causing me to slide to the floor.
