FREE STORY WITH EXCLUSIVE CONTENT. This is *not* a Paid Story.
Eighteen-year-old hockey prodigy Elliot Wexler has three goals for senior year. One: somehow graduate with a 3.5 GPA. Two: hide his bipolar disorder from his peers. And three: make it in...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
HE SMELLS LIKE ashtrays and Axe.
With his muscled arm around my shoulder, Colt's heart thumps against my ear, heavy, yet quiet. We're on Brett and Alecia's couch, and he's nodding off from the H he just shot up. Don't ask me how he can do this shit and still function; it's a mystery to me. I suppose monsters don't operate on the same laws as the rest of us.
Maybe it was always supposed to be this way. Me, under his arm, suffocating beneath his stench. Him, holding me, pretending I love him. It's all so familiar; I've done it a hundred thousand times. But it hurts more now than it ever did before.
We're staying at Brett and Alecia's until Colt gets his own place in Godfrey. Blacklight posters hang on the green walls, and his cigarette smoke burns my nostrils. It's right down to the butt, but he's so spaced out he hasn't extinguished it yet. I don't know why he's watching Looney Toons; I don't know why he does a lot of the things he does. He wheezes out a laugh as cartoony bangs and beeps play from the box TV. Colt has always liked to pretend he's younger than he is, but this is getting on my nerves.
Imprints from cups and beer bottles leave dark circles in the lacquer of the coffee table. Next to an open pack of smokes, there's a needle and bag filled with yellowy-white powder. It disgusts me. He disgusts me. But no matter how miserable I am, I'm not touching that shit. If he wants to stone himself to death, he can do it alone. I have to hold onto hope.
Somehow, someday, I will get out of this. I did it before, and I'll do it again. It's just a matter of when.
"Lucy," Colt mutters, a low grumble with a snake-like hiss.
"What?"
"Hey, what's wrong?"
"Nothing." Everything.
"You know I love you, right?"
"I know."
"Aren't you gonna say it back?"
"I love you."
His eyes are still rolling in his head, but he's coming down from his high. "Good. You know I'd never let anyone hurt you."
You hurt me, Colt. You ride me like a bicycle. You silence me like a TV. You cover my mouth with your hands and press mute so I can't make a sound as the bedposts thud against the wall.
When the lights go out, and he decides he wants something from me, all that dignity I built up on the streets is gone. Poof. Smoke in the air. Once again, he's taken everything from me; I never thought I would miss the cold embrace of abandoned buildings and underground parking lots but I do.
Colt squints at the sunlight. "Damn. What time is it?"
