Wreck Me (Nova #4)(34)
Author: Jessica Sorensen

I bite down on my tongue all the way to the front door… Somewhere beneath being strung out and the lingering alcohol and drugs in my system, I know she has every right to be pissed off at me.

The disappointment.

Their only son.

Who’s chosen this life.

A life that isn’t a life at all.

“Tristan, just stop,” she pleads as I step over the threshold and embark into the cold night air. “Please, just stay for two minutes… I just want to talk.”

“About what?” I ask without turning around. “Getting sober? Because I don’t want to talk about that.” Can’t talk about it.

“You need to get clean.”

“Why?”

Because you love me?

Because you miss me?

Because it hurts you to see me hurting myself?

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” she answers, walking up behind me. “You’re not supposed to go around doing drugs. You’re supposed to be a better person, like…” She starts to choke up. “Like Ryder was. She was such a good person.”

“But I’m not Ryder. I’m just… me.” I shake my head then jog down the stairs, going farther into the night before calling over my shoulder, “And I’m not so sure of what’s right and wrong because everything always feels so wrong.”

She doesn’t say anything and I walk underneath the stars toward a dark, unknown road. A road that I’ve been traveling for a long time. When I reach my final destination, I have to question if maybe it’s my final destination.

Forever.

By the time I enter the trailer home, I feel lonelier than I ever have before. I have no direction, no focus, no purpose. At least here there are people around me, some who I’d consider friends. Friends that like to get high, spun, and drunk, over and over again.

The entire room smells like pot, bottles of alcohol line the counters and tables, and there are couples making out on the plaid sofas in the living room, none of who notice my presence.

I’m invisible again.

“Hey cutie.” A woman at least five years older than me struts up beside me. She has short, bleach blonde hair, massive pupils, and a fake tan. Her boobs are bursting out of her top and her leather skirt barely covers her ass.

“Hey.” I force a smile as I drop my bag onto the orange carpet and take a look around at the place that’s going to be my new home.

“So what are you doing?” she asks as she follows me into the small kitchen area.

“Just getting a drink.” I grab a plastic cup from the yellow countertop and open the nearest bottle of alcohol.

“Oh yeah, I was just going to get one too.” She pours herself a drink and then joins me in the living room.

Music booms from the stereo, a porno plays on the television, and the lights are turned down low enough that I can’t see exactly what everyone’s doing but can hear moaning from somewhere in the room. I haven’t had sex yet, not because I don’t want to, but because I haven’t found anyone who wants to have sex with me. All the people in the living room clearly have the exact opposite problem. For a second, I feel strangely out of place and wonder why I chose to live here. Is this any better than living under a roof with people who don’t want me? I still feel just as lonely.

As I’m standing there debating whether to sit down on the sofa, go back to my room, or run out the front door, someone puts a hand on my arm. When I turn my head, I discover the older woman is standing beside me with a joint in her hand and a lazy smile on her face.

“What you looking for, sweetie?” she asks, handing me the joint. She eyes me over, her hungry gaze eating me up. She wants me. I’ve never been wanted before and I kind of like the feeling. In fact, I’m enthralled by it.

“I have no idea,” I say then put the end of the joint up to my mouth and suck in a deep hit.  But I start to hack when my lungs burn and realize it’s not weed that I just smoked, but something else—something way more potent. “What was that?” I cough, giving her the joint back.

“Something that will relax you.” Her grin expands and I blink my eyes as the drug seeps into my body and makes my mind all hazy. “Follow me,” she says as her fingers enclose around my arm.

I allow her to lead me down the dimly lit hallway and into my room, either because I’m losing touch with reality, lonely, or because she’s noticing me—perhaps all three. When we get back there, she closes the door and locks us in before facing me.

“How old are you sweetie?” she asks, reclining against the door, her glassy eyes fixed on me.

I kick some clothes out of the way as I make my way to the mattress on the floor. “Old enough,” I tell her, uncertain where my bold response comes from other than the fact that everything seems to be spinning into something else, including myself.

“You’re cute.” She stands upright, ambles over to me, and offers me the joint.

I think about asking what drug it is again, but decide I really don’t care.

About anything.

I take another hit and the smoke saturates my lungs and soul while the woman strips off her clothes. Then she removes the joint from my hand, sets it aside in an ashtray on my drawerless dresser. She pulls my shirt over my head and undoes the button on my jeans. The way her hands graze across my skin feels so good and the way she’s looking at me, with want in her eyes, makes me feel alive in what feels like forever.

She can see me.

Feel me.

Knows I exist.

Maybe even wants me.

After all our clothes are piled on the floor, she inches her lips toward mine. “I’m going to take care of you,” she whispers then slips her fingers through mine and guides me to the corner of the room where the mattress is. When she gently shoves me down, I fall onto it.

And keep falling.

And falling.

And falling.

I never stop falling the entire way through it.

Because there’s no bottom.

Just like there’s no way to get back up.

Even when it’s over, I still feel like I’m falling, but I feel like maybe I’m not falling alone, but with her.

Maybe I don’t have to be alone all the time.

My mind is racing a thousand miles a minute as I lie on the mattress and watch the woman climb off me and get dressed. I can’t think straight, either from the drugs or the sex—I’m not really sure.

“What’s your name?” I ask, breathless.

She simply smiles at me as she pulls her shirt over her head. “It doesn’t really matter, does it? None of this does.” I swear her eyes silently say, ‘neither do you.’