Wayward Wolf

Prologue

TW: violence, murder attempt, suicide.

Raymond

13 years ago

I know why Mom left. She didn't say a word to me as she packed up a few of her and my younger brothers' things, but she didn't need to. Even though I'm only fourteen, I know there's something wrong with her bond to Jerry. They acted more like roommates that shared two children rather than people who loved each other. We never went hungry, we always had clean clothes to wear even if they were hand-me-downs, and the electricity had never been shut off, but if one of my little brothers got hurt or picked on, it was me they came to. Mom was always working, and Jerry would tell them to quit being a pussy while I put bandages on their cuts and punched kids who bullied them at recess.

All my life, I've always been treated differently to my brothers. Frankie and Joey are actually Jerry's sons, biologically. I, however, am a result of Mom's first bond. My father died when she was four months pregnant with me and she bonded to Jerry out of necessity. She never would've carried the pregnancy to term if she hadn't. I think a piece of her still loves my dad, and it drives Jerry up the wall. Without my dad here to hate, he hates me instead. He never lets me call him dad, always Jerry. And while Frankie and Joey are treated with at least a little bit of love and respect, I'm either ignored or treated like a speck of dirt on Jerry's boots. He never hit me, hard anyway, but I was always given more chores than my brothers and was punished more harshly if I didn't finish them. Mom never saw and if she did, she pretended not to.

The withdrawal has hit Jerry hard. The past few days he's been holed up in his room with high fevers. I know Mom hopes that me being here will help lessen the effects, as having Frankie and Joey close will help her. They're only eleven and twelve, so she didn't feel as comfortable leaving them here to fend for themselves. I'm only guessing though since she didn't even tell me she was leaving, just stuffed bags into the trunk of her car and drove away. Joey had asked me what was going on and why I wasn't coming with them. I didn't know what to tell him other than to listen to Mom and watch out for Frankie.

I watch Jerry from his bedroom doorway, a cold glass of water in my hand. He's awake right now, hair damp with sweat, staring at the wall in front of him with vacant blue eyes and muttering to himself under his breath. I can't catch many words beyond mine and my mom's name. Even though he's always been a piece of shit, he's never really scared me. But watching him now makes my chest feel tight.

My grip tightens on the glass, slick and wet with condensation. I place it as quietly as I can onto the nightstand, hoping to leave before Jerry notices me. There's a quiet tap as the bottom of the glass hits the wood and his eyes flick over to me. I can't tell if he's actually seeing me with how empty his eyes look, but it's enough to get me moving back toward the door, wiping the water from my hand onto my gym shorts. He hasn't had anything to eat since before Mom left, but I can barely stand bringing him water every day as it is.

Needing to get out of the house and as far away from Jerry as possible, I grab the basketball from the room I share with my brothers and head out to the driveway. The June sun beats down on me, making sweat prick at the back of my neck. We don't have a hoop in the driveway and I usually go down to the park to use the rusted, netless one there, but something keeps me from leaving the yard. What if Jerry has a heart attack or gets worse? I hate his guts, but I don't think I could live with his death on my conscience.

We live in a shitty little house on the edge of the woods. The grass outside is only green because of the rain this spring with patches of dirt and rocks. The driveway leads to a covered carport, Jerry's rusted pick-up resting beneath it. More than once I've fought the urge to throw a rock through the windshield. The only reason I've refrained is because I know Mom would use the little money we have to fix it. The paint on the house is peeling, a few shingles missing from the roof, and the side door beneath the carport squeaks when you open it.

I dribble the ball a few times, enjoying the feel of the rubber against my fingers. I'm starting high school this fall and want to try out for the basketball team. Jerry says it's a stupid idea and I'm not smart enough, but I'm tall for my age and my PE teacher says I can do it if I practice all summer. I know I won't be in the NBA or anything, but it'll get me out of this house and away from Jerry. Maybe I'll finally be able to make some friends too.

For a while, I get lost in dribbling the basketball between my hands and trying to get the ball through my legs. It can't have been more than half an hour when the side door to the house slams open. The rubber of the ball creaks a little as I tighten my grip on it while Jerry stumbles out of the house. His tank top is soaked through with sweat and his hair slicked back. In his hands are two wide brown glass bottles with the tops missing. I don't know what they are, but they look like some kind of chemicals.

As Jerry stumbles a few steps closer, I ask, "What the hell are you doing?"

He doesn't answer, just puts one bottle on the driveway, his fingers still wrapped around the neck of the other. Once he straightens back up, swaying slightly, he lunges at me. His now free hand grabs me around the neck and starts pushing me down onto the ground. He isn't much taller than me, but growth spurts have left me lanky and without much muscle. I try to pry his hand off me and pull away from him. My back hits the hard cement and his hand lifts the brown bottle over my face.

For the first time in my life, Jerry terrifies me. His eyes burn into me, full of hate and death. I clamp my mouth shut and try to turn my head away while still clawing at his hand, but he just moves it to my jaw and pries my mouth open. The liquid burns my mouth and nose, the feeling similar to drinking the beer I stole from Jerry last summer, only worse. I need to breathe, but the liquid is filling my mouth and nose. Spluttering, I try to spit out as much of it as I can, but Jerry just pours more in. My eyes burn and my limbs thrash from the effort to kick him off and breathe. I choke, swallowing the liquid as I try to take in a lungful of air. Just as my vision goes hazy, the last few drops slip from the bottle, and I cough and spit out as much as I can. The neck of my shirt is soaked and my limbs are weak from the struggle.

Jerry stands, dropping the empty bottle onto the driveway. It shatters, spreading brown glass across the cement. He grabs the other bottle and sits down beside me. My vision blurs with tears, but I can see him throw his head back and down the entire bottle before throwing it into the street. He lays back, body almost melting into the cement.

Not able to look at him anymore, I stare up into the blue summer sky, a few clouds passing overhead. I'm scared to even wonder what exactly was in those bottles. All I can hope is that I didn't drink much of it. I try to swallow some spit to ease the burn in my throat and rid my mouth of the foul taste of whatever that was. I'll lie here for a moment before I go into the house and call Mom.

Instead of the rest bringing strength back to my limbs, with every minute I feel weaker. My arms and legs feel like they've fused into the ground, becoming one with the earth, and the sky above me begins to swirl blue and white. An ache begins in my stomach before it expands and spreads, making my insides feel like they're dissolving, frying in hot oil. It's overshadowed by a piercing pain in my brain. My head feels like it's being crushed and needles stabbing into the backs of my eyes. It feels like if I so much as look around, my eyeballs will go rolling into the street.

There's a commotion around me that I can't focus on, a voice shouting and bodies moving by me. The immense pain building behind my eyes makes it difficult to breathe and black spots invade the swirls of blue and white above me. How long have I been lying here? Minutes? Hours? Did Jerry leave?

As my vision continues to swirl and grow black at the edges, I look over at Jerry. The last thing I see before blacking out are his cold, sightless blue eyes staring back at me.