irrevocable

{Before}

Living On The Edge // Aerosmith

Jackson

I'm real good at leaving. If I had to pick one personality trait that summed the rest up, that would be it. I leave. Maybe it's because my earliest memory is leaving. And maybe it's the only way I know how to deal with things when they get tough. Maybe it's because I don't remember a time when I had to work through shit to get to the good stuff. I leave before stuff can get good.

Right here is a prime example. I don't want to be here. I want to leave. But no one else is going to step up and take this on for me, so I don't have a choice. I feel like crawling out of my skin, the anxiety is pushing my limits. I'm sweating. It's most likely due to the heat of the sun, but I'm positive my fucking nerves are playing a part.

I toss the ball and watch as Polly follows it with her eyes but has no energy to chase after it. Her favorite fucking thing in the world, playing fetch in the waves, and she's too damn sick to do it. My heart is fucking cracked. How do I say goodbye to her?

I pick up my mutt—some mix of breeds I've never bothered to figure out—and carry her to where the ball now floats. Polly opens her mouth. The ball finds its way between her canines and she clamps down. Fucking hell, I'm going to lose it. I can't take this heartbreak. It's too much. Her dark brown coat is dripping with ocean water as the waves roll over us. I pull the ball from her mouth and toss it back toward shore. Polly watches it once again, this time with a whine attached to the look.

Fuck me.

"Come on, baby girl. Let's get your ball."

We make it back to the ball and she follows the same pattern.

Somehow, I let my brain take me somewhere else. A time when Polly was a pup and full of energy. I was just a kid, five or six, but damn that dog was everything to me. The only thing my mom ever did for me that lasted. The only gesture that said she loved me was letting me have this dog.

I can tell Polly is about out of the minimal strength she had so I carry her to the little wagon and gently lay her on the blanket inside. I pack up the few things I brought and head across the sand to my truck.

"Sweet dog," some old lady says. "You must love this poor thing."

I look up at her and give a sad smile. I can't speak, because yeah. I love this dog more than anyone else in my life. A boy and his dog, isn't that the sentiment? I can't remember much in my life before Polly. I remember being fucking sad all the time. I remember my mom telling me to stop whining. Then I remember holding her, scrawny little thing licking me everywhere and squirming. I laughed. My mom left me with the pup and that was that.

I make it back to my truck and load my girl in the back seat surrounded by blankets. Once I get the rest of my gear set in the bed, I hop in and check on her one more time. Her head sags to one side, eyes already closed.

Fuck. My heart can't take much more of this. In a split-second decision, I start up the engine and make the drive to my mom's place. Maybe she'll take mercy on me and drive Polly to the vet tomorrow for her final moments. I can't fucking do this.

***

I knock on mom's door with my knee, holding Polly in my arms because the damn dog can't even walk anymore.

"Coming!"

A second later the door to her double wide swings open. Mom's eyes shine when she sees me before she notices the dog in my arms. The look she gives when she realizes what I'm holding makes my stomach hurt.

"Well, you've got an armful. Come on in." Her voice is not welcoming, but what did I expect. The queen of detachment isn't going to offer emotional comfort willingly.