Remember Me )))) THE KINGS OF SUMMER

Lost

"Just don't freak out. Just don't freak out. You are not lost," I whisper to myself. My self-motivation isn't exactly working, however, because it is becoming more and more clear that I am, most definitely, lost. I look at the sky through the trees surrounding me and know that dusk is close. My phone is dead, so I can't check the time. What the hell am I going to do after the sun goes down when I'm in the middle of the freaking wilderness?

This is all Damien's fault. Actually, now that I think about it, first it was my mom's fault, then it was Damien's fault. And if we want to get technical, it's really my dad's fault for abandoning my mom and I ten years ago, causing her to drink herself crazy, which caused her to try to beat the shit out of me last night, which then forced me to run to Damien's arms. I'm not sure why I thought he could help me. He thinks of himself first and foremost...always. We've been dating for nine months, and I've just come to accept it. I can forget sometimes though.

When we were eating Subway this afternoon, and he said he needed a break from "us", I truly thought he was joking. I just ran away from home because my alcoholic mother decided she didn't need me anymore, and he's breaking up with me now? He lives alone, and I have no where else to go. If I go to any of my friends' houses, their parents will want me to go back home, and I'm not doing it this time.

When my mom stumbled in the house at 3:00 am, I could tell she was more wasted than normal just by the sounds she was making: slamming into walls, knocking frames down, tripping over her own feet. She hadn't woken me up because I always stay up to make sure she gets home every night. It's not unusual for me to get a call saying I need to pick up my mother from whatever bar she had been visiting that evening. I was so thankful when Uber came to our small town, so she wasn't walking across town trying to get home every night. Driving herself was out of the question; the only time not having a car was a good thing.

Last night, I was sitting up in bed, reading my book when I heard the front door open. I think she must have gotten our rooms mixed up because she eventually made it down the hallway and crashed into mine. She literally crashed. My door must not have been latched closed properly because it sprang open as soon as she fell into it. She landed face first on the floor, and I just couldn't help it, I laughed.

When she raised her head up, I saw nothing but hate in her eyes. "You think that's funny?!?" She stood up—not gracefully—and stormed across the room toward my bed. By the time she reached me, I was on my feet ready to defend myself. "You don't laugh at me!!!" She said while reaching her hand back and slapping me across my face—hard. I didn't hesitate before raising my own hand and slapping her back. When I was little, I just had to take her abuse, but I'm the same size as her now—and a lot more sober.

She rested her hand on her cheek. "Get out!" She screamed at me with pure rage. That took me by surprise. She's never tried to kick me out before. She depends on me for too much. It enraged me. I shove her backward a few times to get her out of my room, "Fine!" I slam the door in her face before turning around to quickly pack a few things and text Damien to pick me up. If she wasn't going to appreciate everything I do for her, then I wasn't going to do it. Of course, she never said "thank you" to me, but I always assumed that deep down she was grateful.

As I throw my backpack over my shoulder, I swing my door open before marching down the hallway. I pass my mother in the kitchen making herself a drink, "Goodbye and good luck."

I can hear her yelling even after I close the door behind me and walk to the sidewalk. "That's right! Don't come back, you little whore! You're a whore, just like your father!" Although her rant went on some more, I saw Damien's pickup truck pull up and climbed in quickly.

On the drive to his apartment, I told Damien the whole story. By now, Damien knew all about my mom. In the beginning of our relationship, he became the first male in my life that I felt I could depend on, and he was my rock at some of my lowest times. But lately, he just didn't seem interested. He was silent while I told my story but didn't seem to be listening. I wouldn't have survived another argument, so I just let it go.

Of course, he wanted to have sex when we got to his place, but I could not be feeling any less sexy than I was in that moment. I lied and said it was my time of the month. If he were any smarter, he would know I was lying. I didn't ever get my period with the birth control I was currently on. But he didn't push it any further. Thank God. 

He woke me up this morning to tell me he had business in the town twenty minutes away, which I knew meant he needed to meet his dealer. Damien wasn't into hard drugs, but he took his weed very seriously. He would travel an hour away if he heard about a good product there. I didn't want to be alone, so I asked to come with him. "That's fine," he said hesitantly, "but you'll have to stay in the car." That was fine. I wasn't interested in hanging out with his stoner friends anyway.

I had forgotten my book at home, so I was forced to read on my phone while I waited on him—draining the battery. I remembered my charger but Damien's truck was old and didn't have a USB port. I take the opportunity to look through the bag I packed last night in my rush. I had left it in the truck overnight, too exhausted to care. I had a few days worth of outfits, some underwear, a toothbrush and my charger—that was it. I would just have to make it work.

I have no idea how long Damien was inside for, but it had to have been hours. "Of course he wouldn't cut his visit short for my sake", I thought sarcastically. We stopped for lunch and ate it in the cab of his truck. As we were finishing up, he broke the news to me; he couldn't deal with my "drama" any longer, meaning my home life.

Firstly, I went into fight-mode, screaming at him about how he was abandoning me when I needed him most and that I hated him. He stayed calm, which only infuriated me further. "Why aren't you saying anything?!?"

He sighed and spoke like he was speaking to a child throwing a temper tantrum. "The truth is, MJ, I've found someone else. We've been seeing each other for a few weeks." Now I was finally speechless. Thinking back, we had barely seen each other the past three weeks, but he had just tried to sleep with me last night. It was time for flight-mode. If I didn't get out of here now, I was going to be sick. I grabbed my bag and ran away, across the street, into a thicket of trees. I knew Damien wouldn't come after me, but I ran anyway.

Now, several hours later—it's impossible to know how many—I realize the error in my ways. No matter how pissed at Damien I was, driving back home with him would be better than being this tired, hungry, scared, and thirsty—I've never been more thirsty in my life. I keep picturing the almost full Mountain Dew I left in Damien's car and want to cry. It's the closest I've come to crying in the last 24 hours—despite everything that's happened.

I'm trying to decide if I should stop and rest for the night or keep moving—with the possibility of getting even more lost. Seemingly out of nowhere, I begin to see a building of some sort ahead of me. I begin to speed my pace, getting excited. If there is a building, then there are people—and I'm not going die out here frightened and alone.

When I reach the clearing, I see it's a house, but not a house I would normally see. There were different types of wood scattered throughout the walls, appearing to be haphazardly put together, like a jigsaw puzzle done by a two year old. My first thought is that it must be abandoned—who would live here?—and my heart sinks. I guess this won't be the rescue situation I had been hoping for. But then I see a couch and fire off to side, still smoking. Some part of me knows I should be more cautious, but I push that aside. I am so thirsty, I would just have to deal with any sort of person I needed to.

"Hello?" I yell loudly. "Is anyone here?"
"Kelly? Is that you?" I'm relieved to hear the voice of a young boy, maybe even someone close to my age. He must live here with his parents.

"Um...no. Not Kelly." I say and hear a door open and a teenage boy circle around the corner. He's got thick brown hair parted on the side, and his face, arms, legs and clothes are all covered in dirt. Even in my weary state, I recognize him. He's Joe Toy. His face has been all over the news as a runaway kid for weeks. I take in his appearance and the house. What the hell is going on here?

But before I can care about any of that, "Do you have any water?"