Every Bright and Broken Thing

Chapter Twenty-Three - Liam

Once in Morrison, we find a Super 8 and book two rooms. Theo and I take one while Jace and Will take the other. As we enter our room, the musty scent of mold and cigarette smoke immediately greets us. I crack a window to let in some fresh air and Theo sprays an ungodly amount of Febreeze in the room.

Tossing my backpack onto one of the chairs, I turn to the bed closest to the window and pull back the covers to inspect it for any unwelcome guests. Once assured that I won't be sleeping with any bed bugs, I grab my clothes from my backpack and lock myself in the bathroom to change.

Placing my things on the countertop, I strip free of my clothes. I lean forward on my hands until my face and my reflection are only inches apart. If I lean forward any further I might fall right through the mirror and into another world – like Alice in Wonderland. I wonder if that world could be kinder.

Lighting up a cigarette, I study it closely before setting the thing to my lips and whisper, "Take me to wonderland." I draw in a long, slow breath of a thing that's meant to kill.

In my mind, I conjure up all the sage advice I've been given over the years.

Things happen for a reason.

Sometimes God needs them more than you do.

Just have faith.

Just put one foot in front of the other.

Trust.

Rest.

Shallow advice, however well-meaning, is poison to the minds of those who suffer.

Mom and Dad were never quite so cliché. In fact, most of this advice came from strangers on social media or distant relatives who've never even met me. I guess some people just don't realize that when you're grieving you don't want people encouraging you to be happy. Sometimes you just want people to give you room to grieve.

In some ways, I do admire the people at Dad's church – well, the ones who stayed when everyone else was leaving with their lies, complaints, and accusations against my family. When Mom died, they never tried to offer advice for things they didn't understand. Mostly, they just sat with us quietly, brought us food, offered sad smiles.

I wonder if anyone at his church misses me. It used to be my church too. I used to consider many of them to be like family. Until...

Don't go there. Not now.

I wonder if they care that I left or if they even think of me at all.

Dad does.

I wish that was enough. For his sake, I wish it was enough. But it's not. I can't pretend to belong somewhere I don't.

Lincoln does.

But Lincoln doesn't know what happened. He can never know why I'm terrified to step foot in that church. He would never understand. How could he?

Tears form in my eyes as the memories come flooding back. Memories of big Sunday dinners after church with Mom and Dad and Ez. Ez and I playing outside when we were kids. Lincoln and I staying up late to play videogames.

But for every good memory, for every warm thought, there's an equally destructive bad one. Memories of the fact that my family will never be together again for a Sunday dinner after church. Or the fact that Ez is a stranger to me now.

He left me.

But stronger than any other is the memory of what happened that night at Lincoln's house two years ago. And as hard as I try, I can't seem to forget. Funny how we cling to the things that destroy us.

Normally I don't let myself remember. But not tonight. Clearer than anything, like seeing through polished glass, I watch the memories unfold inside of my mind. Every nerve inside of me comes alive and I tremble, watching myself in the mirror, watching the sweat form on my temple, as tears fall quietly. A snarl tugs at the corners of my lips and a low growl rumbles deep inside of my chest.

And I hate myself for it.

Pull yourself together.

Plucking the cigarette from my lips, I inhale a sharp breath and stand up straight, maintaining eye contact with my reflection. Bare-chested, every muscle in my body tenses and relaxes over and over again as I squeeze my fists tight, then release.

In,

out.

Inhale,

exhale.

One,

two.

My hair falls in front of my forehead, a tangled, sweaty mess. My fist is still bruised and scabbed over from when I punched my locker door. The words written in yellow flash across my mind's eye.

Faggot.

Slut.

I study myself, eying every flaw that I can find. Too thin here, not enough muscle there. My eyes are too close together, my nose too big, my fingernails chewed to the quick. I struggle to find anything about myself that I actually like. A part of my wonders if this is why Stacy left. Maybe it was more than what I told her; maybe everything else about me wasn't good enough for her future either.

Maybe I'm not worth the world's kindness.

Maybe I deserve what happened to me.

The weight of the thought lingers over me as I dress. When I'm done, I walk back into the hotel room where Theo's already lying on his bed, flipping through the channels.

"Took you long enough," he says, peeling himself off of the bed. "I gotta take a leak."

"It's all yours, man," I say.

As soon as I fall onto the bed, covers pulled tight around me, I drift off to sleep and dream of nothing.