Like Dragonflies

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I mutter out, my voice hoarse. If I could figure out a way to go into the past and not open my big-ass mouth that drove my mother to insanity, I would. If there were a way to send her a warning to stay the fuck away from meth, I would.

I may be a boy named Mars, but I’m not a time-traveling fixer of the past.

I’m a worthless, goddamned piece of shit.

“Sorry doesn’t fix anything,” he sneers, kicking the edge of the coffee table, making the bottle nearly topple over. “All you can do is make something of yourself. Some of us weren’t allowed that luxury.” His nostrils flare, as he looks me up and down with disgust. “Some of us were forced to work our asses off, killing our backs in a factory. For what?”

I fumble for the right words to say. Words that won’t anger him. “I don’t know, sir.”

“I’ll tell you what,” he roars, charging for me. His fist grabs the front of my hoodie and he yanks me so we’re face-to-face. The pungent smell of whiskey on his breath sours my stomach. “I worked my ass off while your mother was pregnant. We tried so hard to be a normal family. But then you were born.” He spits out his words. “You were born, screaming twenty-four fucking seven. While I was working my fingers to the bones at the mill, your mother was stuck with you. It drove her crazy. No wonder she took up meth. Anything to cope.” His face is bright red with fury.

I swallow down my emotion and stay deathly still. There’s no arguing or apologizing when he gets like this.

“So you owe it to her. To fucking me. You owe it to your parents who gave up their lives for you. If I even hear one word from Ricky Beauchamp about you stepping out of line, you’ll be done.” He shoves me away from him and I crash into a chair.

I right myself, clutching my backpack strap hard, and whip around to face him. Clenching my teeth, I bite back every hateful word I want to say back to him. My mouth gets me in trouble all the damn time. With anyone else, I don’t care. With Dad, I try my hardest not to piss him off.

“Yes, sir,” I mutter.

“You’re a loser, Mars,” he says, his voice turning icy. “Me, letting you stay here—well past eighteen—and borrowing against my pension to pay for your education, is me giving you a fighting chance.”

“Thanks, Dad.” I offer my best look of gratitude. While I’m thankful he’s paying for this first semester of my college, I hate being a mooch for needing that help. The tuition. The truck. The room to stay in. Hell, even the groceries in the cabinet. I’m in his debt.

His phone rings and saves me from further lecturing that would no doubt lead to bruises or a busted lip. As soon as he answers, his voice turns from cruel to flirty as he tries to lure his newest conquest into his bed. I slip past him quietly, rushing to my room. Pictures of my mom hang on the walls—something Aunt Darcy did for us when I was small—leading to my bedroom at the end of the hall. You can pick my room out of the mix because it’s the only one with holes punched in the door.

I push inside my room and flick on the light before closing the door behind me. There’s no point in locking it. Once, I thought that would keep my father out when he was in a rage. All it did was infuriate him more. He showed me real quick, when I was just thirteen, how a thin plywood door is no match for a man of his size and strength. I was no match.

Tossing my bag to the floor, I let out a heavy sigh. The day is catching up with me and I’m dead on my feet. I should study or shower. Instead, I peel off my hoodie and shirt before kicking off my shoes. I sprawl out on my double bed and admire the chaos that is my room.

Posters. Pictures. Scraps of paper. Stolen coasters from Duncan D’s. Sketches and paintings and some weird kite thing I found in a field. Whatever cool shit I can scrounge up ends up on my walls. To most, it probably looks like a big mess. To me, it’s a snapshot of me. A bunch of random parts that make up the man I am today.

Grabbing my sketchbook and a pencil from the bedside table, I doodle some meaningless art. Just stuff to clear my mind. I end up drawing a dragonfly with rings that seem to orbit its narrow body in place of wings. The stress of this evening fades away as my white sheet of paper becomes dark with pencil shading, mimicking the deep void of space. My dragonfly and its unusual wings seem to fly through the stars. An escape, far away from here. Inside the body of the dragonfly, I scribble out the name “SAGE.” It’s small and I make the letters stretch from one side of the body to the other, so it almost looks like a design within it. I decide it looks cool enough for the wall and rip it out.