Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 163089 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 815(@200wpm)___ 652(@250wpm)___ 544(@300wpm)
My phone vibrates again.
Unknown number
Joke’s on you. I got dozens of numbers. You keep blocking, and I’ll keep annoying the fuck out of you.
Block.
Unknown Number
What the fuck do you even want, Marcus?
Me
That’s a good start. Speak nicely. No threatening of any sort.
You finally replied, you fucking asshole? When I catch you, I’ll fuck you up.
Block.
He’ll come around.
He has to.
18
PRESTON
For as long as I can remember, there’s been a buzz that lives in my mind.
A loud whine eternally buried in my brain, lurking behind every word, every action, and every waking moment.
My brain and I call it the static.
You know, that thing that happens when you hear your own thoughts. Like a stream of consciousness of sorts, like you’re having a conversation with your alter ego before talking in the real world.
Only, for me, it’s loud and won’t shut up, not even during sleep. That time is its playground.
Let’s make Preston’s nightmares as action-heavy as we can, says the static to the brain, flipping between the channels, pulling on the strings as if I’m a marionette.
Sometimes, I think the static and my brain are one and the same.
Because I certainly don’t want to be stuck with the constant annoying buzz that never lets up unless I’m heavily medicated.
And by heavily, I mean it has to be a dose large enough that I can barely move my sluggish body around.
To kill the static is to kill my brain or douse it so much, it won’t be able to make any noise.
Which is what I’ve done tonight, swallowing the strong medication reserved for my extra-severe episodes.
Jude would kill me.
Kane, too, probably.
They don’t like it when I take these special concoctions when I’m not in their presence.
Jude would actually rather take me on a ride or a killing spree than watch me be a zombie.
“You don’t like it either, do you?” he told me when I asked him why he’s so against my magic potion, made by his brother, no less. “You’re clearly uncomfortable with those meds because they practically erase your inhibitions and make you defenseless, which is bound to trigger your traumatic memories.”
“The whole point of Julian’s special meds is that I feel nothing, so, technically, no trauma shit happens.”
“Technically doesn’t mean fully.” He grabbed my shoulder. “I want to be here when you take them, Pres. That way, you know no one will fucking touch you under my watch.”
“Don’t be dramatic.”
“Promise me.”
“Aw, you love me that much?”
“Promise, Preston.”
“Fine.”
Obviously, I broke the promise, but listen, technically, I didn’t take the meds unsupervised. Technically, I hinted to Dr. Duret that I would need a crutch today. You know, to deal with a certain anniversary I loathe with everything in me.
“How about finding loved ones, Preston?” she blabbered. “Like Jude? Kane? Your father?”
Jude, nah. He’s dealing with his own shit, looking like the walking dead lately, and I’m not a kid.
Kane is unavailable and busy chasing Delaware in another state. Dude even missed a game, which is a real blasphemy that should be recorded in history books.
As for Dad, I’d rather choke on my own vomit than let him see me like this.
He already thinks I’m the most failing failure to have ever failed, and I’m not confirming his theories. Thank you very much.
He’s been calling me nonstop since this morning and has probably sent Lenin to drag my ass back, but they can’t find me here.
At the top of the cliff.
I’m parked so close to the edge, I can feel the wind rocking the car as I take a sip from the bottle of my beloved Jack Daniels.
Because Jude is right, I’m not completely numbed out—at least, not yet—and alcohol helps dull that grating noise scraping at the edges of my brain.
Scratch.
Scratch.
Scratch.
On and on, it mimics the ruthless howl of the wind in the dark emptiness.
It’s like a song stuck in my head, but it’s harsh and wrong, and I can’t get rid of it no matter how much I douse my throat with alcohol.
I pull out a lighter from my pocket. It’s glittery black and has the initials V.D.A. engraved in a silver color that shines under the soft light of the car.
Valérie D. Armstrong.
My entire childhood, I watched Mom use this lighter to smoke her dainty cigarettes. She said it was a gift from Dad before he threw her away.
“You were one bitter woman, Ma.” I scoff, my voice sounding like it’s coming from underwater. “Till the very end, you never admitted that you and Dad just didn’t work out.”
She was a French socialite who loved a luxurious lifestyle and fine wine. He was…well, Dad. Never smiled as much as her, never loved life as much as she did. Never sang spontaneously around the house.
Probably never loved money as much either. Power, yes. Money, no. It doesn’t matter to him, not really.