Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

12 | A Nail In The Tire

JUEVES
10:03 PM

Reid Harlow

Dahlia is ignoring me.

I know I shouldn't care, or bother to add her to my list of priorities when I have other shit I need to be dealing with. I had homework—which racks up exponentially with each passing day—I had to keep my distance away from the family, and I had to start figuring out my plans for the future. For the after.

But I can't fucking think about any of that. I can't even finish an English assignment that would usually take me only an hour to dominate. I was stuck writing the same three words that I crumpled up the paper and threw it in the trash. It was fucking with my head.

She was fucking with my head.

I can't stop thinking back to the time where she was crying. When she was so weak that her legs no longer supported her weight, when she dropped to her knees in complete anguish. She was bawling, and sobbing, and in so much fucking pain that I felt my chest restricted with each cry she releases.

It hurts because I've been in that position before.

It's easier to list a couple of names off the system, of who cried and wailed and screamed in agony due to their experiences. It's easier to say that these are the fucked-up kids, because what else did you expect from some orphans abandoned and taken away from their homes?

But Dahlia wasn't a foster kid.

She wasn't living with strangers or being recycled into homes where she had to greet and meet new people every couple of months. She didn't have a social worker tailing after her and asking about her health, or how the shift has taken a toll on her mental state. She was a daughter, to a family, and she was loved.

Until she wasn't.

And it fucking kills me to see that coming from someone as kind and gentle as she is. I knew what the world had in store for me and I braced myself for each impact—but Dahlia didn't deserve any of that.

So, it's exhausting trying to figure out what's going on behind the scenes. Especially since she's been ignoring me, and especially since she hasn't been going to the bench. I used to think I could pinpoint who exactly is Dahlia Gray, but with the reveal of recent events, I might not be so sure.

I lean back against the chair, dropping the pencil in a sigh of defeat. The homework assignment for Calloway was just going to have to wait until I can clear my head. Until I could figure out my next plan of action.

I hear laughter coming from the first floor and I'm reminded of the fact that the family is crowded around the living room, watching some movie. It wasn't a Saturday, nor a Friday, but it was a spontaneous decision made because they wanted family time.

I obviously didn't attend.

I shoot up from my seat, frustration rolling through my system as I run a hand through my hair. I don't know what to do. I don't know who to ask. I know Dahlia has friends and she would meet up with them in the mornings—but it's a slim chance that they know her situation.

She kept saying it was so stupid.

It wasn't.

I found myself pacing back and forth. I don't like being left out of the loop, I don't like knowing something's wrong but can't help to fix it. It's worst if it's abuse, I fucking hate abuse out of everything.

But most of all, I don't like feeling afraid for her.

I barely know her father, but from what she describes him to be—he sounds like an asshole. A genuine asshole.