It Would've Been You

IV

𝐋𝐎𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐇𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐎𝐔𝐆𝐇 𝐎𝐍 𝐈𝐓𝐒 𝐎𝐖𝐍, but when someone else continues to force the this-is-all-your-fault blame down your throat, it's even more painful than a blade to the arm.

And that is what my dad has been doing the entire week.

He continues to drown his feelings with alcohol or takes his sorrows out on us. I guess he's trying to register the fact that Mom is gone. He doesn't believe it. And I don't either.

I was supposed to go to Sydney's house last weekend. I've left all of her texts unanswered. I don't have enough energy to be around anyone, not even my sister.

I know it's only a matter of time before she comes over, and that's the last thing I need right now. Someone worrying about me.

Cameron doesn't acknowledge me when I see him in the hallways. But it's not like I want him to. It's better to act like we don't exist in each other's worlds besides the two hours we spend in the library together, which we scheduled to suit him and his 'busy' life.

He seems to have no time for anything else, yet he's at every high school party his friends host.

I haven't gotten much sleep between school, library meetings, home, and sneaking out. My body barely functions, and I find satisfaction in hoping it'll shut down entirely.

It's another Thursday night, like every other night for the past two weeks. My sister went to her room after dinner. We have eaten the same microwavable pizza enough times to make me gag at the thought.

It's all we can afford for now, and I have no choice but to deal with it.

I should be in my room spending my time doing something productive. Instead, I'm tying the laces on my Converse and trying not to trip over the piles of clothes thrown around my bedroom floor.

It is primarily my fault that I haven't gotten adequate sleep. I've been spending more time smoking outside of a convenience store at night than allowing my brain to rest.

But I use it as a coping mechanism. The more I smoke, the calmer I feel. And It's better than waking up to figures towering over me, so in a sense, I'm doing myself a favor.

I walk around the back of my house when I'm sure my dad has passed out on the couch. It wasn't too hard to do so anyway; he didn't care.

I tuck my hands in the pockets of my hoodie to escape from the cold air nipping at my skin. Though cars occasionally drive down the street, lighting the otherwise dark neighborhood with headlights, the roads are empty.

I'm not afraid of walking alone at night. I've gotten used to the occasional slow drivers who stop to ask me if I want a ride.

I find myself on a familiar street near a gas station. I'm out of cigarettes, and I don't think I can survive without nicotine in my lungs anymore.

"Another late night?" The cashier asks, raising his head when I walk in. He turns around and grabs a pack of Marlboro without a need for my request.

"Always," I mumble, looking through the rows of snacks as I pass through the store, walking up to the counter.

"I appreciate the company." He takes my money. The cash register beeps with a receipt, and I shove it into my pocket when he hands it to me. "What happened to you, kid?"

I look down at the display of lighters in front of me. I've been one of the few customers coming in this late at night, and Miles always works the night shift. He's six years older than I am. And he seems to have his entire life figured out.