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And it makes me question why I wanted to forget so much.
50
HADLEY
I takea moment to collect myself as I lie on my bed, breathing in and out, trying to figure out where that memory of my mom came from. Up until now, I couldn’t remember ever having problems with panic attacks. But now …
Faint memories float in my mind of my mom having to calm me down.
Why was I so worried all the time? And, what did she mean bybreathe through the pain? What pain?
By the time I get up from the bed, I’m as clueless as ever, but I attempt not to think about that for now and focus on getting started with my to-do list. The first task: breaking into my father’s bedroom.
“I’m going to be fine,” I mutter to myself as I crouch down in front of his shut bedroom door with a hairpin in my hand.
It takes me about thirty seconds to pick the lock. Then, once I get the door open, I step inside and close the door behind me.
The stench hits my nose first, the air reeking of stale cigarettes, booze, and weed.
“Jesus, Dad,” I mumble as I inch farther into the room, kicking clothes and empty alcohol bottles littering the floor out of my way.
A blanket is hung over the window, blocking out the sunlight. I reach over to flip the light switch, but the light doesn’t turn on. When I peer up at the light, I frown.
The light bulb is missing.
I glance around for an alternative light source and spot a lamp beside the mattress. I walk over to turn it on, but the light bulb is gone from that as well.
Why the heck do none of these lights have bulbs?
As I make my way farther into the room, a heavy sense of dread stirs inside my gut as I notice something.
Just beside the mattress are the missing light bulbs. The white coloring has been stripped from them and a thin residue covers the inside. And just beside the light bulbs are a couple of small, empty plastic bags. I’m fairly positive I know what was in them.
“Dad, what the hell did you get yourself into?” I rub my hand across my forehead as a dull pain throbs in my temples.
Just breathe, like Mom taught you.
I take a deep breath then another, trying to calm myself down.
I’ve known for a while that my dad was an alcoholic and smoked weed. He’s also a con man, a borderline abusive jerk, and a real screw up. What I didn’t realize, though, is that he was starting to get into some hardcore drugs and, knowing that … it makes me aware of just how far gone the father I once loved is.
How long has this been going on? Is that why he stole the drugs? For himself?
No … There has to be more to it than a drug addiction, especially with how many drugs were in the bag I found buried in the backyard. And there was money in it, too.
I blow out a stressed breath, trying to release some of the pressure in my chest. Then I stand up and move farther into the room. The air is damp and heavy, and the smell is making my stomach churn, but I push past the nausea and start rummaging through his stuff.
The only piece of furniture in here besides the mattress is an old, wooden trunk my dad has had for years. He keeps most of his clothes in a duffel bag, which is here, making me aware that my dad never took anything with him when he took off. Eventually, he’s going to have to return to get his stuff, right? Normally, I’d say yes. In the past, he always returned. But as far as I know, he’s never been in this much of a mess before; in trouble with two drug lords—or whatever the hell Axel and August are. And he has a warrant out for his arrest for hitting me. When I really think about all the trouble waiting here for him if he returns, I question if he will ever come back.
Maybe he’s really gone this time.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I’m not sure how I feel about anything anymore.
I mean, I’m glad I’ll never have to deal with my father’s shit again, but I’m still kind of dealing with his shit. If he returns, those problems will become his again and part of me wants that to happen badly.
Sighing at my conflicted feelings, I yank the blanket off the window then start digging through his duffel bag. I find nothing but clothes, a pack of cigarettes, and a lighter in it, so I move on to the trunk. It’s locked with a big, rusty padlock, the kind that are much harder to pick than doorknob locks.
