At the very bottom is a video.
Dated and time stamped: Six years ago.
Acid singes my throat.
Begging, “Nonononono,” under my breath, my hands shake so badly, the curser dances over the download. My finger twitches on the mouse.
And clicks.
Once.
Twice.
A pop-up.
“Get the fuck away from that!”
A play button on a black background.
Click.
Richard slams into my side.
The mouse clatters to the floor.
Muffled cries and dark laughter crackle from the speakers.
Our attention snaps to the movement on the screen.
We’re statues, staring.
Vomit fills my mouth.
Beside me, Richard braces himself on the desk, eyes wide in horror. His head shakes slowly at first, back and forth, picking up speed.
“I can’t take this case,” he rasps. Buzzing in my ears. I’m in quicksand. His jaw trembles as the image clarifies to reveal a vivid nightmare. “That boy they’re…” A dry, choked sound. “That’s my stepson.”
51
Win
Six Years Ago
Tonight’s the night.
I think I’m finally ready. Or as ready as I mentally can be. I’ve got it all planned out— if it’s dark, he won’t see my scars. I packed stolen lube packets and condoms in my backpack. At this point, I've researched, prepped and over thought it more than enough.
My mind’s made up: I’m losing my virginity to Remy.
After his track meet.
He’s been agitated and defensive lately and while I want to be the person he leans on, I’m struggling. Disassociating. Numb. Maybe by taking this step, both of us can feel something good.
Call it excitement or nervousness, but I’m too jittery to sit at home. Not even V can calm me down. Hundreds of insecurities whip around like race cars, occasionally crashing and exploding into flames.
Taking the new route to Kingsbury that I discovered when escaping Grant & Co. last week, I flick a lighter over the end ofa blunt. Storm clouds gather in the distance, the dismal gloom shrouding the setting sun. I don’t mind; the rain soothes me. I’ve got hours before the bus returns. Hopefully the walk clears my head.
Halfway down the path through the copes of trees, I finish my joint and toss the roach into the underbrush. The mild buzz humming beneath my skin releases some tension, but I’m still anxious as fuck.
