Page 36 of Beautiful Scars

I sigh, images of Meisie all beaten and broken running through my mind like a bad porno on the dark web. I shouldn’t care. I’ve never cared about anyone in my life before, except Cole. But for some reason, I can’t deal with the thought of her going through that.

It’s not even about the consequences. I probablyshouldbe rotting in a jail cell, Christ knows I’ve done enough shit in my life to warrant that.

No. For whatever reason this is about me not having the balls to completely fuck up this girl’s life.

But I do realize I might have to fuck it up temporarily.

“No,” I tell him. “We’ll go back to the original idea.”

“That failed spectacularly.”

I shake my head. “Not the car crash. We’ll make sure Mum knows exactly what little Meisie has gotten herself into.”

Cole stares at me, his straight face slowly turning into a smile. Then, as if he’s bored already, he gets up from the desk and stretches. “I need a drink.”

“Knock yourself out,” I tell him.

He’s already making for the office door. “I fully intend to.”

My eyes drift back to the TV. Ford is gone now, but the news reporter is still bleating on outside her house. I stare at him and try to make myselffeelsomething. Anger. Rage. Even mild annoyance.

But I can’t.

I hate a lot of people. Ford. Sarah. Cole, sometimes. My second-year English teacher. But hate is not a feeling. Hate is just a category I put people into.

Sometimes I think there must have been some fuck up in the uterus where we got one person’s allowance of everything between us. So Cole got all the feelings, while I got nothing.

I should be angry. Annoyed. Instead I’m just numb.

Drugs used to make me feel things. It’s impossible not to feel anything when you’re as high as a kite on ecstasy. But I don’t do that anymore. Booze? Just makes me depressed. I’d rather have no feelings than suicidal ones.

I’m not doing either of those things.

The third poison of choice—fucking.

I pull out my phone and open up Snapchat, but I close it down as soon as I see all the blue speech bubbles. That’s never made me feel anything either, because it’s never about me. I bet every single one of them sent a photo of their tits to my brother at the same time. You could stand us both side by side, and they’d flip a coin. They’d sing, “eeny, meeny, miny, mo.” Or the ones that wanted more than just a fuck would choose Cole, because at least he knows how to have a good time.

What good is fucking when the second it’s over you go back to feeling nothing again?

It took me a long time to learn that all three of life’s poisons only make you feel worse in the end.

I wish I could go back and tell myself that, and spend more time trying to work out what the fuck actually makes me feel something.