Praying for Rain (Praying for Rain Trilogy, #1)(32)

“Neglect.” I shrug. “She was only eight months old. My mom was an addict and could hardly take care of herself, and our dads were both out of the picture. I managed to get myself to school and scavenge for food in the dumpster behind Burger Palace, but I never once thought about feeding my sister. She was just a baby, you know? I didn’t even think she ate food.”

“Oh my God, Wes.”

Rain’s mouth falls open like she’s going to say more, but I cut her off, “She used to cry all the time. All the fucking time. I would play in the woods or at my friends’ houses every chance I got so that I wouldn’t have to hear it. Then, one day, the crying just … stopped.”

I remember the relief I felt, followed by the horror of finding her lifeless body, faceup in her crib.

“The cops came when I called 911, and that was the last time I saw my mom. My case worker said I could go see her in jail, but …”

I shake my head and glance at Rain, waiting for the typical condolences to come pouring out of her parted lips. I’m so sorry. That’s just awful. Blah, fucking blah. But she’s not even looking at me. She’s staring into the fire again, a million miles away.

“My mom got pregnant when I was about eight or nine, too.”

My stomach drops. Rain never mentioned having a younger sibling, so I’m pretty sure this story doesn’t have a happy ending.

“I was so excited. I loved playing with baby dolls, and I was about to have a real one that I could play with every day.”

“Did she have a miscarriage?” I ask, hoping the answer is yes.

Rain shakes her head. “My daddy gets real mean when he’s been drinking. He never puts his hands on me, but sometimes, when he gets like that, my mama—”

Rain suddenly goes so still. It’s as if somebody turned her off. She stops talking. She stops breathing. She even stops blinking. She just stares into that damn fire as all the color drains from her face.

“Rain …”

She clamps her hands over her mouth and nose, and I know any minute the rocking and hair-pulling are going to begin.

Oh shit.

“Hey.” I put a hand on her bare shoulder, but she recoils from my touch. “Rain, tell me what’s going on.”

She shakes her head, a little too hard. “Nothing,” she lies, forcing herself to meet my stare. “I’m just … I’m really sorry about your sister.” The sadness in her voice is sincere, but when she yawns, it’s fake as hell. “I’m so tired. I think I’m gonna go to bed, okay?” Rain doesn’t even wait for my response before she’s practically running out of the room.

What.

The fuck?

I hear a door slam down the hall but no crying. At least, not yet. I’m sure she’s too busy digging a little white pill out of a little orange bottle.

Whatever. I am not going after her crazy ass. I’m gonna sit right here, enjoy this fire, drink this entire bottle of vodka, and pass the fuck out.

I take a nice long pull from the ice-cold bottle and hear what sounds like music coming from down the hall.

So what? Maybe she falls asleep listening to music.

Then, I recognize the song—“Stressed Out” by Twenty One Pilots.

Twenty One fucking Pilots.

She’s in his room, listening to his music, wearing his clothes, like she still belongs to him. But she doesn’t, and it’s high fucking time that she got that through her head.

Fueled by three or four or six shots of vodka and Rain’s erratic behavior, which is obviously contagious, I stand up and stomp down the dark hallway she disappeared into, mad that my bare feet don’t make any sound on the worn-out carpet. I want her to hear me coming. I want my footsteps to rattle off the walls.

This bullshit ends now.

My eyes take a second to adjust to the dark. I see three doors in the hallway before it turns left, but only one is shut. I walk right over to it and give it a hard shove. The music gets louder as it swings open, and there, sitting cross-legged in the center of a bare mattress, is Rain, rocking and staring at a glowing MP3 player in her hands.

“Get up,” I shout.

Rain jumps. Her head swivels toward me, but she doesn’t move.

“I said, get the fuck up!” My voice booms in What’s-his-face’s tiny bedroom, but I don’t even try to rein it in. I don’t even think I can right now.

I’m furious that I see a nine-year-old version of myself in her lost eyes, and I want to slap it out of her. I’m furious that something is hurting her, and she won’t let me murder it. But mostly I’m furious that I didn’t find her soon enough to stop whatever it is from happening in the first place.

Rain hops up, standing next to the bed with the glowing device in her hands, and stares at me. She’s not crying. She’s not running. And, for the first time since I laid eyes on her, she’s awaiting her next command like a good little soldier.

“I need you to get something through that pretty little head of yours right now.” I take two steps into the room and point my finger directly at her face. “Everybody … fucking … leaves. I don’t know what’s going on with your family, and honestly, it doesn’t matter. Because people are temporary. Everyone you love, everyone who’s hurting you—they will all fucking leave, one way or another. They might die, they might get locked up, or they might just throw you away once they find out how fucked up you are, but they … will … leave … you.” I drop my hand and take a breath through my nose, trying to calm myself down.