Carter Ortese is Trouble - completed (The Boys #1)

Chapter 24: Emma

After having that conversation with Stacy, I feel ... lost. Lost and drained and angry and miserable and frustrated. But lost is the main feeling. How does someone recover from something like that? And how can I help her? There has to be something I can do. I'm anxious to do anything, especially since I haven't been there for her thus far.

Then there's everything with Mika and her parents. I talked to her a little more about it after school, when she called me up over video chat. I let her vent, and I listened, just wanting to be there for her.

On top of feeling lost, I'm full of rage. Our lives consist of people pressuring us into becoming something we don't want to be. Our lives are full of people telling us what a girl is and what a girl is not. Our lives are dictated to us, warped into being something that doesn't belong to us anymore. I barely recognize who I am, and I'm not sure how to claim the me part of my life back.

A part of me wonders if guys have it this bad. I know Carter's reputation is beyond his control, but do the people in his life steer him in the "right" direction?

When my parents open the door, walking into our house at exactly 5:30 in the evening, I've been tapping my pencil on the end of my notebook. With my thoughts trapping me, I now have a flurry of dots in the margins of my white-lined page. My brain is on fire, and I realize I should have grabbed pain medication an hour ago. Maybe earlier. My eyes water, and a sharp pulse pierces through my skull, making my head feel like it's about to split open.

Dazed, I stand up and grab hold of the end of the kitchen island. My arms quake, and I am on the verge of collapse. My vision tunnels, and I can only see the wretched dots I made across my notes. Dot, dot, dot, thousands of them.

"Ah, what are you working on?" my father asks, not batting an eye at the grimace on my face. His words are too loud, like a jackhammer boring straight into my skull.

"Nothing, I—" My words come out clipped, too loud, an elephant trampling over what's left of my brain. This is the worst pain I've ever been in. Ever. I try to stand up straighter, to face my parents and keep on a brave face, but I'm not sure I have any strength left.

"Looks like she hasn't been working." My mom swipes the notebook and turns it toward my dad. The dots are now scientific proof that I'm a failure. Always a failure, at least in their eyes.

If hadn't been for their strict rules and extra academics, then maybe I would have realized what's been going on with Stacy earlier. Maybe I would have had time for my friends, and time to practice clarinet. Maybe I wouldn't have failed with Georgia. Maybe I wouldn't have failed with Stacy.

Even as I try to convince myself of this, I know it's a lie. I wouldn't have realized anything was wrong with Stacy even if I had more time for my friends. Stacy showed the world—showed me—what she wanted me to see. No matter what, I wouldn't have been able to change that.

"I have. I'm just—"

"Distracted?" My father arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest, and I wonder if he's always looked this mean. His brows knit, his jaw tightens, and there's this look of disgust all over again, as if I'm the worst thing in his precious little universe.

A failure.

"I need to lie down," I say, voice coming out as a shaky whisper.

"Lie down?" he asks. His woulds slam into my brain. I wince and take an unsteady step back. "It looks like you haven't finished your homework. This is not who we are in this house. This is not what we do."

"Maybe it's who I am," I scream. The words vibrate into my core, right down through my neck and spine. My brain is on fire, shooting hatred and anger in all directions. I can't control this, not anymore. It's bigger than me. This rage is larger than my own self-pity. "Did you ever think about that? Ever think for one second that this is the best that I am? This is the best that I can do? This is everything I have?"

I'm spewing the words, and as I'm glaring at the two people who call themselves my parents, who claim to love me unconditionally, I realize that none of this will make sense to them. There's no point. I might as well argue with a music stand.

"No," I shake my head and grab my notebook back, slamming it shut. The marbled color comes in and out of focus, the blacks melding into the whites. "No, you thought I would be better and do better, but this is all I have, and I'm not even sure I can manage this much."

I've never talked back to my parents, never said one word out of line. I've gone along with their plans my whole life. I have never expected them to understand me, to get me, to allow me to pursue my music.

And here I am. Swaying and barely awake. My brain pulses, and I mutter something us, but I'm not sure what. I excuse myself from the kitchen. Using my hands to guide me along the walls, I walk with half-lidded eyes upstairs to our bathroom. I take double the recommended dose for the pain and drink directly from our tap. The water is ice cold down my throat, and when I'm finished, I latch onto the sides of our sink and stare at my reflection.

My head throbs, so much so that I think I should drill a hole into my skull to relieve the pressure. My eyes water from the pain, and I splash ice water on my face and soak a towel. Somehow, I manage to get back to my room, collapse onto my bed, and throw the wet towel over my forehead and eyes.

The towel makes my vision blissfully dark. My parents' voices barely reach me up here, but I know they are arguing about me, something about discipline. Something about my needing to be grounded. Something about how wrong I am. How out of line I am. How much of a failure I am.

I breathe out a long, hot breath, and realize I don't mind being a failure to them. My friends matter. Carter matters. My life goals matter. But them? They've never loved me. They've loved the idea of who I would become, and they've been so wrapped up in their dreams for me that they never bothered to get to know the real me.

Emma Williams. Girl who has everything going for her, including a non-divorced couple who houses her and takes care of her, but has no idea who she is other than "the girl who has everything going for her." We're the picture perfect family.

I'm not sure how long it takes, but after what feels like hours of tiny pickaxes cutting away at the inside of my temples, I finally fall asleep into pain-free darkness.

- - - - -

Is Emma's anger justified? What do you think of her emotional state? Have you ever had headaches this bad?

Stay tuned for the next chapter, where Desmond and Carter have a longer heart to heart about their families!