I get in the car before I subject myself to more vicious words. “Let’s go,” I say, and my uncle is quick to pull away. I rest my elbow on the window, hearing the girls in the back chattering.

“Don’t let them get to you,” Carmichael says, giving my thigh a reassuring pat. “You’re a good dad, boy.”

I strain a smile and glance back at Rosie. She’s not interested in me right now, and that’s fine. She doesn’t even know I’m here. But I’ll always be here.

My body catapults upward, and I gasp for air, drenched, the sheets sticking to me. It takes me a few panicked moments to get my bearings. I feel like I’m suffocating.

Ava.

I turn my head, noting her sprawled beautifully on her back, and I gasp, suddenly finding the air I need. My heart seems to kick start, the beats dull but consistent. “Shit,” I breathe, scrubbing my hands roughly down my cheeks and falling to my back. I let my eyes close again, feeling groggy and dozy, but my darkness is a picture show of everything I can’t handle. Faces from my past. Hurt I can’t escape.

I get up quickly and pull on some shorts, heading for the gym to run off the anxiety. I don’t build up from a jog to a sprint. That’s not going to work this morning. I need to shock my body out of these shakes, so I crank up the machine to full-whack and flick on the TV, watching the sport updates coming in. My legs work like pistons, and I zone out, clearing my head, working my heart rate up to a dangerous level.

Ten miles.

I reach down and smack the plus button, running on, and ten minutes later, I can’t feel my legs, but my lungs are ready to explode from the strain. All I can focus on is catching a breath. It’s where I need to be.

I keep going, my tormented mind draining, my thoughts dispersing, until all I can think about is how fucking beat I am. I hit the decrease button and rest my hands on the bars, my head dropping as I watch beads of sweat hit the treadmill. I slow to a stop, grab a towel and wipe my forehead, looking over my shoulder to the glass doors.

I blink, and it’s as if that small movement clears the obstruction to see clearly. Just for a moment, though. Like wipers working fast across a windscreen, ridding the glass of violent rain briefly before more rain comes and distorts everything again. This thunderstorm will never cease. Not until I physically stop it.