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He died while trying to protect his friends. He died fighting for the family business. He was shot by a rival, and I was left behind.
I'm always left behind.
My entire life, people have left me. My dad, my mom, my stepdad (don't care about him too much), and now Logan.
I'm destined to be alone forever. There's no point in even trying at this point, because the next person is going to leave me, too.
Since Logan died, I've drowned myself in bottles of liquor. It's the only thing at this point that numbs the tearing apart of my limbs. Notactually, but it feels that way, to be honest.
Fast forward to now, and I feel underwater. The amount of liquor I've consumed over the last few days has made my body feel heavy and slow. The only thing that moves fast are my tears. My tears seem endless, and no amount of liquor or Puffs Kleenex is going to make them stop.
I stare into the massive hole in front of me and think about hiding in one of the dark corners when they start burying him. They would never know, and by the time they found me, I'd already be dead. I just don't want to live anymore. I don't want to go on without Logan.
* * *
Glancing behind me,I see the remnants of Logan’s funeral reception, or party, or whatever, start to thin out.Finally. I contemplate turning around and keep drinking, but I've had way too much to drink as it is. It's time to take my ass to bed.
I start my walk home, and when I'm turning the corner to my street, I hear footsteps behind me. I stiffen and slowly start to look over my shoulder.You can never be careful in this neighborhood. Not during the day, andespeciallynotat night. The type of people that walk in this neighborhood are never up to any good. I usually carry a small blade on me, but I'm fucking stupid and forgot my purse at home.
I shake my head at myself in disgust. Iknowbetter.
What I see when I look over my shoulder makes me drop my shoulders about five inches.
Jackson.
He doesn't realize I'm in front of him from the looks of it. His eyes are mostly closed as he drags one foot in front of the other. He runs into the neighbor's tin trash can, knocking it over and making it clatter all over the ground. But he just keeps walking, not sparing it a glance or reaching down to pick it up.
I scoff and shake my head at him as he approaches.What the fuck?
He's walking more horizontally than vertically at this point, and I'd laugh at him if I wasn't so numb.
He's just steps from bumping into me when I stagger back and yell, "Jackson!"
His eyes fly open and he almost falls over at my voice. When his vision clears and he sees its me, his eyes go flat along with the rest of his face.
He turns away from me and continues on his walk to his house, but I can tell his limp is getting to him.
See, the night Logan died, Jackson was also shot. He almost didn't make it, but he pulled through. Every time I've seen Jackson, he's been trying to hide his limp that I know he doesn't want anyone to notice.Inotice it though, because the pain on his face is so similar to the pain I know is written on my own face.
I'm not sure if it’s from the pain or his intoxication, but on the next step his legs give out and he falls to the ground. He lets out a small grunt, but otherwise doesn't say anything.
Walk away. Walk away.
I so badly just want to leave him here. He's not my problem. Not like he's ever helped me out in any way. I think he's only spoken to me a handful of times since I met him.Five years ago.
But, my inability to walk away from someone hurting is just in my blood. I may be scrappy, but my heart is a fucking pillow.
"Come on, idiot. Let's go." I walk over to him and grab him by the arm. I use all my might, but I'm barely able to lift him even an inch off the ground. "You're going to have to help me up here, Jackson. I can't lift your heavy ass myself."
For fear he's actually fallen asleep, I get close to his ear and shout, "Jackson!"
He twitches, giving away the fact that he was starting to doze off.
"Help me get you into your house, or else you'll be sleeping outside and who knows what neighbor will be leering on you tonight. Maybe Patty from the corner will feel you up as the sun comes up."
With those words, he lugs himself to a standing and leans most of his weight on my shoulder.Fuck, that hurts.Jackson is big, and by big, I mean he's one tall ass mother fucker. At over six feet, you wouldn't think he's in high school. He is, though. And although he isn't as muscular as Easton, or even like Logan was, he's still defined and obviously works out.
I can tell, because as I carry him into his house, I can feel each and every ab muscle flex and move against my hand as I try to keep him steady.
