Christian Westbrook, an emotionless seventeen-year-old who is far too mature for his age, is trapped in a life with his aunt and uncle. It was never his intention, but he didn't have an option. His life has been irreparably altered, and he longs for...
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(PROLOGUE)
I wish I had died.
When I open my eyes, I see a white room with a few paintings on the walls and a flat light above my head. I feel a slight pain in the side of my neck, and I don't have any recollection of what happened.
I look down at my hands and notice several bandages and more bruises. I run my palm up my side and wince as I try to sit up. When I look to my left, I notice my aunt through the glass speaking to a man draped in a white coat.
My aunt appears disturbed as she runs her fingers through her dark hair.
God, what did I do now?
I pull the sheet off my legs, clamber out of the bed, and fall to my knees. I scream as an excruciating pain travels up my legs causing the same man dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat to come rushing into the room, helping me back onto the bed.
"Please take it slow. Your body is still recovering," he says.
I look at him with a raised brow, "What are you talking about?"
He looks back at my aunt, who's now in the room, and she nods.
"You were in a crash. You were going at high speeds," he says.
I chuckle in disbelief, "Yeah, right."
"Now, please get me out of this insane asylum,"
My aunt looks at me with wide eyes and opens her mouth to speak, "Christian, this is not a joke. You could've died," She whispers the last words into my thoughts.
They repeat perpetually in my head, and I really want to say, maybe it would've been a good thing. But I don't because she might actually put me in an insane asylum.
"I knew I should've never let you buy that motorcycle," she mutters, which snaps me out of my reverie.
"I'm careful with my bike, I've always been careful,"
"Not when you decide you want to race someone," she says, "Because you're always irresponsible, trying to win, your instincts don't kick in when you go too far."
"I was racing someone and crashed?" I inquire, glancing at each of them. The blood drains from their faces, as the doctor strains to form sentences out of his words.
"If this is some wacky scheme to keep me away from racing, you're crazier than I imagined, and why can't I feel my fucking legs?" I exclaim.
"Your legs are just temporarily injured right now," he states, resting his hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me down.
My chest tightens and my breathing gets short; the room begins to spin, and I find myself unable to speak, despite my brain telling me what I should say.
