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“I’ll make an appointment with the doctor I saw.”
“That’s the hospital Howard’s at right now.”
“I’ll figure it out, then.”
She sighed. “Why won’t you let me take you?”
“Because it’s not your responsibility.”
I saw the hurt in her eyes. And had I not already been dead inside, it would’ve killed me. The truth of the matter was that all this was my mother’s responsibility. But she’d abandoned me. None of this should’ve happened. Dad shouldn't have been an abusive fucking asshole. Nobody should have had to bear the responsibility of it.
I wouldn't let Cecilia dig her hole any deeper.
Just like I wouldn't let Rae do it, either.
“You really should take advantage of this time. Withdraw some funds. Pack up your things. Get the hell out of here and find a better life for yourself.”
She stepped forward, placing a hand against my arm. “While that’s sweet, it’s not your job to look after me, Clinton. I appreciate it, but right now I’m worried about you. You can’t go to school looking like this.”
“Then I won’t.”
“There’s nothing I can do to convince you to let me get you to a doctor?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Are you staying here for the day?”
“No.”
“Where are you going, then?”
I shrugged. “Anywhere but school and here. I need to clear my head for a bit.”
“Do you want me to come with you?”
“No.”
“Is there anything I can do for you right now?”
You’re much too good to me. “No, there isn’t.”
She sighed. “Well, at least keep in touch, okay?”
I nodded. “I can do that.”
Reluctantly, she left my room. She walked down the hallway toward her and Dad’s bedroom, but stopped in the doorway. I watched her back expand with her breath. I saw her shoulders roll back. And as she suddenly held her head high, she let out the longest sigh I’d ever heard in my life.
Before slipping through the large double doors and disappearing behind them.
You’re too good for any of us, Cecelia.
I finished getting myself ready for the day and covered up the best I could. I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and went rummaging around for a coat. Anything to slide up my arms in case there were bruises I’d missed somehow. I found a light jacket shoved in the back of my closet, neatly hanging from a hanger. A bomber jacket, made out of some lightweight material, that Cecilia had gotten me for Christmas a year or two ago.
I ripped it off the hanger and slipped it on. I grabbed my n
otebook and pen from my bedside table and slipped my wallet into the back pocket of my jeans, cursing myself for… well, everything.
Then I made my way downstairs.
