Break Me (Brayshaw High 5)

Worry draws her brows together, but she looks away, knowing I’m here and they’re there and there’s nothing changing about that until I decide there is. I love her ass for pausing to voice her concern though—she understands me fully.

Captain shifts the mood to something lighter, and we bullshit our way through the rest of dinner, hanging up after we agree to hop on at the same time tomorrow, and every other night until we’re all back where we should be.

When we were seven, our father gave us tokens meant to link us physically, when emotionally we were since day one.

He gave Maddoc a key, Captain brass knuckles, and me a white gold chain donning the family crest.

Each had their own meaning linked directly to who he saw in our eyes, and mine is a presentation of our family’s strength as a whole.

At seven, I was smaller than my brothers, skinnier, but not weaker. I was ten-foot-tall in my mind when I stood less than half of that. I remember our dad told me I walked spine straight and shoulders strong, head high and proud.

He gave me the chain that then hung low over my abdomen, and said the crest was mine to wear proudly, like a soldier with his tags, like a general does his medals. He said it represented the fight our family had. The fight he knew I would never walk away or cower from.

At seven, maybe even younger, our father saw strength we didn’t yet know, but believed in.

But we know it now.

I pull the chain from beneath my shirt, reading over the inscription on the back, the same inspiration etched into each of our items.

A couple of years ago I tattooed the words on my body, so that if I ever lost this necklace, they’d still be with me, reminding me of what I could never forget.

Family runs deeper than blood.

A bold, brave statement that’s the truest I’ve ever heard.

We understood the power of those words as kids, and we hold them even higher now.

The ones we love most, we share nothing less than our hearts, minds, and lives with.

Something like having dinner together might seem trivial to those on the outside, but it’s far fucking more to us.

Eating together is a tradition we’re not willing to break, and only did a few times as of recent when our world was fucked and never want to do it again. It’s something we promised each other as we grew, that no matter how fucked our world might be at times, no matter the wild, the trouble we’re facing, be it town drama or our own, the last meal of the day we’d spend together. At the end of the day it’s a good way to refresh our memories, in case we ever forget—if nothing else, we’ll always have each other.

Family by choice.

A reminder we bleed like everyone else, even if our world sets us apart from others our age.

I guess Brielle’s little mobster joke was semi on point.

I push my food aside, lying back on the shitty bed and flat pillows, staring up at the ceiling.

Mobster and musketeers.

The girl thinks she’s educated when it comes to our world.

I’m thinking not.

But why the fuck am I thinking of the brat to begin with?

Maybe I do need to go home.

As I think it, a nauseating need for a crowd creeps in, screaming for me to make my way toward others, the suffocating sense of how I’m sittin’ solo in this box of a room weighing next, but I force that bitch back.

I just said I was fine, and I am. I brought myself here. Told Mac to leave me here. I’m good.

I’m good.

I trace the crown molding on the ceiling, trying to focus on the overlapping paint and chipped corners, but my eyes pull toward the clock, and then to the silver key sitting beside it.

Fuck it.

I push to my feet, slip a black hoodie on and I’m out the door.

I don’t know where I’m going, but I can’t sit in a locked-up room full of shrieking silence, so I hop in the weak-ass car and off I go.

By the time I realize where I’m headed, I’m already there.

Parked right outside of Brielle’s aunt’s house.

The house is dark, so I’m ready to keep rolling, but then I spy a splash of silver.

What the fuck?

I hop out and stomp my ass across the yard, and sure as shit, there she is, slumped over one of those things stacked at the backs of every grocery store, still in her school uniform.

My muscles flex as I approach, but it doesn’t take long to realize she’s breathing, and frustration follows.

Irrational irritation flares in my gut. “Wake up.”

Brielle’s head pops up, her hair covering half her face as she manically whips her upper body from left to right.