Dear Life(102)

Kicking Sasha out of my apartment was pretty simple after that. Despite how I felt about her in the past, that’s exactly where those feelings stayed: in the past. Nothing compares to the way I feel when I’m with Daisy. She’s changed me, morphed me into a different man who actually cares about something other than my pursuit to be free of my uncle.

With Daisy, it was like my life was playing out in front of me in a Technicolor musical dream, with fucking dancing quilted vests and hideous turtlenecks as the chorus line.

Now, the world is dull and dreary, a plethora of greys barely distinct from one shade to the next. And there is an ache, deep in my chest, an ache so debilitating that I’ve surrendered all attempts at moving forward with my goals.

And Dear Life? Yeah, fuck that program. Getting Fitzy’s friend to write me a doctor’s note was easy, listening to Marleen trying to coach me over the phone, pure torture. That bitch has some tits to think she can save everyone. Newsflash, Marleen: some people aren’t worth saving.

And you know what, some people don’t want to be saved. Can’t. Be.

What I can’t seem to get over is that I sit here, bottle of whiskey in hand, the key to my freedom in the other and yet, I haven’t broken through the glass ceiling of my proverbial imprisonment.

I haven’t been to work in a few days, blowing my uncle off every time he calls to find out why I’m not slaving away behind the grill. His voice messages are full of threats that hold no weight to me now, because I hold the key to my freedom. Money.

Amber liquid drips down my throat, my body feeling numb with each swallow. I welcome the burn, loving the way it briefly dilutes the constant ache ricocheting through my body.

What a dump. This apartment, such a shithole. But there was one person who actually liked it, because she could see the good in everything. She saw it as a place of freedom. I see it as a prison of solitude, a place I’m trapped with my demons. She saw my bed as one of the most comfortable sleeps she’s ever had. I see it as a rectangle of regret. My kitchen, she saw as a showcase to watch me in my element. To me, it’s an embarrassing temple where I shattered the heart of the only person I’ve ever cared for.

The glass bottle touches my lips again and I tilt back just as a battle of fists rams against my front door, startling the hell out of me so whiskey gets all over my shirt.

“Fuck,” I mutter, setting the bottle on the coffee table in front of me and looking toward the front door. Someone is about to regret disturbing me.

On wobbly legs, I make my way to the door and when I open it, I’m greeted with a meaty fist to my face which sends me stumbling backward until I fall flat on my ass. Disoriented, I try to make sense of what just happened and that’s when I see my uncle, hovering above me, shaking his fist out.

“Get up.”

“Fuck you,” I spit out, the taste of blood filling my mouth.

Shaking his head, he shuts the door behind him and stares down at me. “It’s funny how sometimes I can be so wrong about people.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” I move my jaw around with the assistance of my hand. Nope, not broken, just sore as hell. If I wasn’t so shaky on my own legs, I would fight back, show my uncle he can’t rule me anymore.

“When you came to my house with one pathetic suitcase in hand, but hope for a change in your eyes, I thought you would actually make something of yourself.” Motioning around with his hand, he continues, “I guess I was wrong. You’re just ending up like your sorry excuse of a father, no future, no aspirations.”

“Fuck you. I have aspirations.” I stand up, stumbling into the wall as I catch my footing. I take a moment to right myself before continuing. “I want so much more than this dump of a life but you’ve been holding me back, making me pay off my servitude.”

“No, son, you’ve been holding yourself back.”

“Don’t call me, son. You haven’t earned that right.”

“Like hell I haven’t. I fed you, gave you somewhere to sleep, gave you opportunities to pursue your interests. I gave you a hell of a lot more than your father ever did.”

“Yeah, with a side of fucking guilt and a handful of IOUs.”

“Nothing is ever free in life, Carter. You have to work for it. I may not have known what I was doing, raising a kid that wasn’t mine, but I did my damnedest to instill the value of a strong work ethic. And do you know why? Because I didn’t want you to end up like my brother; a loser druggie with nothing but a needle in his hand and a bounty over his head. Did I mess up along the way? Of course. Did I blame you for the lack of freedom I had? Often. But I won’t apologize for making you work hard, for never giving you anything for free, because you now know the value of your efforts. You know what it takes to keep your head above water.” Looking around again, he says, “At least I thought you did.”

Mentally knocked over, I find my way to the couch and try to gather my thoughts. My entire life I’ve thought of this man as a retched human being, out to make my life miserable in return for ruining his. And yes, there may have been some subconscious payback on his part, but from what he’s saying, his intent was to make something of me, and fuck if that doesn’t mess with my liquor-soaked brain.

“You couldn’t have shown a little compassion? A little understanding for a little boy who lost his parents?” I ask.