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My mom for selling me for her next fix, for fucking dying and leaving me forever.
My dad for never being there, for only ever bringing pain and destruction when he did pop up randomly throughout my life.
Jack for keeping things from me.Oh fuck, that felt like the worst betrayal of them all.
Or myself.
For believing that I had found something special at Sanctuary, that Jack was my someone and would only ever protect and maybe love me.
For accepting the scraps Dad threw me when he needed something.He always had an agenda.I was all too aware of that, yet I still hoped.
For putting up with Mom’s shit for so long, for working my ass off and lying to myself that I did it all for me and a better life, but really, it was all for her.I’d hoped to eventually earn enough to afford a good rehab program for her.To get her clean once and for all so I wouldn’t have to keep living with the fear of losing her forever to her addiction.
What a fucking laugh.
I could see all too clearly that it was never going to happen.A dream.A goddamn fantasy.That was all any of it ever was.Why did I let myself believe differently?
The fact that I had still been able to hope made me feel like even more of a fool.
How could I forgive either of my parents for making my entire life such hell?What the fuck was wrong with me to accept their bullshit?
They’d turned me into a masochist, someone who obviously thrived off the pain they inflicted.Why else would I trust a man I had no business even dreaming might care for me?
It was my own fault.
I clung to him.Let myself fall for him.Love him.Imagine a future with him.
And all along, I knew better.
Clint’s call just reminded me that I was living in fantasyland, but it was time to face reality.
Every time I’d ever heard my father’s voice, disaster followed.I was eight the first time I truly understood that.Mom had tried to get clean.She was sober for three entire weeks when he’d shown up at our door out of the blue.It was always out of the blue.He stayed off grid, only popping up when it suited him.He could play the system, even the internet.His dark web knowledge was almost as scary as he could be in a rage.
That day, he walked into our living room with three shopping bags full of groceries.Mom cooked dinner, and we sat down for a meal together as a family for the very first time.I’d been so happy, so sure that things were going to get better.As I’d stuffed my mouth full of mashed potatoes, I’d envisioned coming home from school each day to both my parents, a fridge full of food and milk, and going to bed every night with a full stomach, a happy heart.
But as I was chewing my last bite of steak, Dad handed Mom a baggie.
With a grin, he announced he’d picked her up some dessert, a special treat just for her.
Even at eight years old, I’d immediately known what it was.
Meth.
I was told to go to bed.
Mom got high.
And Dad left—like he always did.
The next morning, I found her in the living room.What was left of her stash was spread across the scarred coffee table.There was a new burn mark on the wood from her pipe and fresh blisters on her lips, a few red spots on her cheeks.She sat on the floor with her back against the couch, her head leaning at a painful angle.Passed out, with drool trickling from her open mouth.
I fixed myself a bowl of stale cereal, using the last bit of milk we had left.I didn’t cry, even though I wanted to.My eyes felt swollen, a little achy, but they remained dry.After I washed my bowl and spoon, I grabbed my old, tattered backpack and left for school.The visions I’d had only hours before, long gone.
Yet somehow, eleven years later, I still clung to hope.
God, I was so pathetic.
As soon as I’d heard Clint’s voice the night before, I should have just hung up.I didn’t know how he’d gotten my number, not that it surprised me.Not much did where he was concerned.
