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Back Where There's A Will Save as PDF
Chapters (39)
  1. AUTHOR’S NOTE
  2. PROLOGUE
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. Interlude
  37. Acknowledgements
  38. Content Warning
  39. About the Author

What the fuck did I do?

Will’s softly muttered words come back to me then, momentarily silencing the demons in my head.

“Please don’t hate me.”

A sob rips out of me, broken and ugly.

I bite down on my tongue, hard enough to draw blood.

Not enough. Never enough.

Breathing becomes impossible—nothing more than thin, crackling gasps.

I blink.

I’m on the floor. I don’t know when I got there, but I’m on the floor. And there’s vomit pooled next to me, and there’s blood staining my palms in little crescent moons.

I can’t breathe and everything fucking hurts and I kind of, maybe, really want to die.

Please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me, please don’t hate me—

I squeeze my eyes shut—

And all I see is blue. Deep ocean blue, because of fucking course.

Sobs continue to tear their way out of me.

“Stop me.”

Why? Why the fuck didn’t I stop him?

“Show me.”

I still feel his lips on mine. Why do I still feel his lips on mine?

“So fucking perfect.”

I scream.

I scream until I’m hoarse, until more vomit is gurgling up my throat.

Black creeps in around the edges of what little consciousness I have left, and I welcome it. I chase it. I don’t want to be here anymore. I can’t fucking do this. I can’t want this. I can’t do this again.

“Please don’t hate me.”

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—

Because it’s no longer his voice in my head.

It’s mine.

Please don’t fucking hate me.

20

20

Waylon McAllister

THEN

I watch from my bedroom window as the lady drives away.

It’s Tuesday. Exactly one week since my birthday.

My dad’s standing on the porch with his hands fisted at his sides. He’s wearing his uniform so he’s still got his tactical belt on. With his back to me, I can make out the black flap of the holster. It’s empty, the gun having been locked up as soon as he came home an hour earlier than expected.

Because we had a visitor.

I look down at the lime green cast encasing my left arm. I finally showed my dad my wrist when he picked me up from school yesterday, and he took me straight to the hospital. His jaw ticking with barely restrained anger.

He messed up this time and he knew it.

I remember how he told the doctors I fell down the stairs. How he was always telling me not to run, and I never listened.

I remember how they looked at me for confirmation. How easily they believed me when I explained why I didn’t get it checked out immediately:

“I was scared I’d get in trouble.”