The Story of Us

A Revelation

*A/N* It's all unedited. Sorry. YOU MUST READ THIS CHAPTER OR YOU WILL BE LOST!*

The medic gently dabbed my face with antiseptic, making my cuts sting. Levi sat next to me, another medic gingerly poking at his bruised– possibly broken, nose. I glanced down at my lap, guilt-ridden, and saw all the mud on my dress pants. Well fuck, it had been sprinkling after all. There had been a brief moment between blows and insults that I thought I'd felt wetness on my head and back that definitely wasn't blood even though Gentry's lip had been busted open too. Confused yet? I would be. Hold your questions and let me back up to the morning after my little adventures in Walmart.

A pamphlet was on the top on my dresser. All it took was one glance at the cover for me to throw it out my window. Heck, that little meltdown showed I passed the first stage of grief. Bye-bye, denial. I was now on the second step of anger. Well I was feeling pretty damn angry that morning. Them people who came up with the “Five Stages of Grief” might actually know what the fuck they're talking about.

I flopped down on my bed and lowered my head into my calloused hands. Today was going to be hell. Rachel's birthday party was later and then after that was my dad's funeral. How was I gonna pull this one off? The answer floated in through the open window on Raelynn's laughing voice. It was a simple solution, really. Act. Bull shit, whatever the hell you wanted to call it. Regardless, I was going to be an emotionless robot because it hurt to care anymore.

That reminded me I needed to find out when the goddamned party was. I grabbed the phone off my bedside table and scrolled through the minimal contacts and found Ally's number. She picked up on the second ring.

After our greetings she asked how I got her number. Thomas had given me Ally's number a few months back when we went against a school from Houston, telling me to call her if he got hurt. I never had to use it excluding now.

Ally started babbling on how nobody called her and that Rachel was there with her. I cut her off, not wanting to discuss Rachel Jergens for some reason.

“Can I bring anyone?” I blurted, saying anything to get Ally to stop talking a mile a minute. After a short laugh she assured me I could and how she thought Levi liked Rachel. I clenched my phone in my hand to stop it from shaking.

“What time does she get off of work?” I asked, running a hand throw my greasy blond hair. It had been days since I'd taken a shower. Rachel got off of work at five. Good.

We hung up and I wondered over to my closet, deciding to use my time wisely and get a shower before Rachel's birthday party.

And his funeral. A traitorous voice whispered in the back of my head. I shook it off, grabbing a pair of light blue jeans with a hole in the knee and a dark Texas A & M t-shirt. It took me a moment to choose the black beanie hanging on a hook on my closet instead of a Realtree ball cap.

Hot water cascaded down my back, releasing some of the tension in my shoulders. I let my head fall forward until it rested against my right arm which was propped against the wall.

Take a drink Noah, make it all feel good. Teeth clenched and arms rigid shoulder-width apart, I hit my forehead on the wall. The little voice was successfully quieted for the remainder of my shower. They didn't tell you about that little crazy voice in the back of your head in the five stages of grief, that was for sure. Or maybe I was just going crazy. Who knew, because I certainly didn't.

If they wrote about that freaky little voice in the back of your head in them pamphlets, I'm sure they'd tell you not to, under any circumstances, listen to it. But my mind didn't have an instruction manual so before I left for the Sandwich House I took down Mom's half-finished bottle of Kentucky Bourbon and drank straight from it. When I realized what I had done I quickly returned the bottle, cursing myself, the voice, and my mother for having the damn bottle in the first place. Then with a jolt I remembered that it was Dad's bottle for special occasions. The bottle he never let me touch. Disgust shot through me, disgust at myself and for what I was turning into.