Cheeks wet, not from tears, but water, still dripping in through the roof. Might as well be living in a shack in Arkansas, the way things have been going. Next to my head is this dead silver thing, my drowned laptop.
The whole morning is dead, except for the
roar of the river, high and brown, out my window, and my father's snores from down the hall, sleeping off this entire weekend from hell, me and my brother caught between the storm and my father's rages.
My own rage shoots out of nowhere, zigzagging in my chest, following me out of bed, making me stamp so hard down the hall,
my heart beating out a rhythm: HATE YOU, HATE YOU. Johnny,
Half a year since he disappeared, and I hate him for not being here when I need him. For only showing up in the places that vanish in the morning light.
Hate him! I hate that shaky missing feeling inside, hate that feeling of being trapped here in this life, and it almost feels good to feel that hate, feel it pushing something out of me that makes me want to run. A hate like this makes you feel like your body could just take over for you and take you somewhere instead of making you stuck all the time in your mind. Trapped.
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Invisible Saints
Tínedžerská beletriaThe ultimate test of love without limits. Sequel to Johnny Voodoo, the dark romance set in New Orleans and the steamy Bayou country. (Starred Kirkus Review). Johnny and Deirdre meet again, this time when a hurricane rips through their region. He w...
