I often manage to convince myself it’s just a small problem. Something that feels awful for a while but surely won’t last. I’m getting good at it; you might even say I’m becoming an expert. More and more often, I manage to persuade myself that these horrendous memories have nothing to do with me, as if I’d witnessed a car crash or a robbery. Something life changing and harrowing—but for somebody else.

Not for me.

I like that last thought best of all.

And so, everything goes on like it always has: chores, school, work. But those dark and dreadful memories are anchored in my soul, unseen by the outside world.

Three Weeks Earlier

Three Weeks Earlier

Friday

Friday

1

1

Brian grabbed Ralf’s computer and pulled it onto his lap, not noticing his friend’s weak protests—or simply ignoring them.

Ralf was used to Brian’s pushing him around. And anyway, it was pointless trying to stand up to him when he was using. Ralf took a sip of his Red Bull, laid his head against the worn sofa cushions, and looked up at the ceiling of the shed. The cobwebs had woven themselves like lace around the fluorescent light, and the fiberboard ceiling tiles resembled a tangle of worms. He squeezed his eyes shut. His head was throbbing. Not just because last night had been a long one, but mainly due to his mother’s nagging. She’d called him no fewer than thirty times and sent countless messages. Like some kind of stalker. He hadn’t seen the messages until this morning—his phone had been off.

He’d stumbled home around six o’clock to find his mother blocking the way to his nice warm bed. She’d been sitting in the kitchen, her eyes hollow and bloodshot, a half-empty bottle of wine on the table. She’d grounded him—grounded! Like he was still a baby.

He was eighteen, for Christ’s sake.

He had a car.

What gave her the right?

He had to move out, and soon. Maybe rent a place with friends somewhere in Rotterdam or The Hague. If only he had the money.

His mother had yelled and yelled, barely pausing to breathe. His father had appeared when he heard the noise but hadn’t gotten involved. He never did. “Your mother knows you better than anyone,” he’d said, before heading off to work.

But she didn’t know anything about his life. He’d snuck out a thousand times before to drive to The Hague or Antwerp with Brian or other friends. They’d done things she’d only ever seen on the TV shows she always sat gawking at like a zombie. No, she didn’t have a clue. But she still thought she knew everything about everything.

And she loathed Brian.