Some kind of a normal life? Someday? She says it like it’s almost an impossible feat. Like there’s a huge mountain of unsurpassable obstacles in front of me. Like I’m so severely backward and damaged that I’m doomed to a life of… what? Living in a supervised facility? Living with my parents? Not being able to do something worthwhile and important? Not able to get married and have a family someday? Her insinuation hits me harder than anything that anyone else has said to me since I’ve been freed. I lost my childhood and the opportunity to form friendships and relationships. I missed out on a lot of my life. I was mentally and physically abused. But I’m not stupid. I’m not afraid to live and learn. I want to. Determination sprouts and grows in me as her words resonate through me. I’ll prove her wrong.
I’ll prove everyone wrong.
Soon, the doctor comes in to discharge me and advises me to rest for a few days before resuming daily activity. I almost laugh at that. If I spend any more time resting and sitting still, I’m going to lose my mind. I can’t do it anymore.
12
Tyler
nineteen years old
This party is boring as hell, but I didn’t come here to socialize. I came here for my three favorite things: oxy, weed, and speed. Oxy to kill the pain, weed to chill me out, and speed to wake my ass up.
I wouldn’t mind a side of coke and a blow job to top it off, but neither one of those seem to be options for me tonight, judging from this crowd.
My old high school friend Jimmy invites me to all his college parties, even though I haven’t had any sort of academic goals or socialized with friends since I was pushed into a bonfire three years ago and came out looking like a side of beef jerky.
By the time I had gone through countless burn treatments, skin grafts, and other horrific shit I’d rather not think about, school was no longer a priority for me. My chance of getting an athletic scholarship was gone. Most of my so-called friends had gone MIA, one of them taking my girlfriend with him.
Good riddance, assholes and bitches.
Friends were overrated anyway, once morphine became the love of my life.
Pre-fire, I worked out five days a week and ran every morning. I ate lean and clean. I meditated and did yoga. I had a few beers and got stoned maybe once or twice a month with friends to unwind. My body and my mind were my ticket to everything I wanted in my future: athletic success, inspiring others, and an equally beautiful and healthy partner to share life with.
At sixteen, I had a clearly defined path mapped out for myself, and I wasn’t going to let anything get in my way. I had watched my father struggle to pay bills and work his ass off seven days a week at the motorcycle shop he’d owned for twenty years. Pop had a lot of biker friends, and if they needed something, he was there. That included fixing their bikes for free because that’s what bikers do. It’s one big family. That shit didn’t pay the bills, though, and I refused to follow in his footsteps. I’d let my brothers do that. Me? I was getting out of this town, population of twelve hundred.
Raising the bottle of whiskey to my lips, I welcome the burn as it seeps down my chest and into my gut recalling, with equal bitterness, how I left the hospital with a flicker of hope and a handful of prescriptions. Hope soon took a backseat to an addiction that had crept up on me slowly, obliterating my plans.
My physical scars were easy to see, splayed out across my flesh for people to stare at, back away from, and question endlessly. The scars on the inside, though, managed to go unnoticed as they snaked through me like a poison.
A tall, lanky kid approaches me where I’m perched on a fence post thirty feet away from the crowd of college kids drinking, dancing, and making out. He wouldn’t be coming over here in the dark unless he had good reason, so I know he’s the one I’ve been waiting for.
“You Ty?” he asks nervously, his eyes scanning the area like he expects the police to jump out of the shadows.
“Well, I ain’t Mickey Mouse.”
He pushes his silver-rimmed glasses up his nose. “Jimmy sent me to hook you up.”
I take a pull off my drink. “Yay for Jimmy,” I say sarcastically. “Whaddya got, Waldo?”
He reaches into his jacket pocket and produces a clear plastic bag filled with weed, pills, and a small vial of coke.
“How much?”
“Eight hundred.”
Without much regret, I pull out a wad of cash. Some worked for, some stolen. “Guess I won’t be eating for a while,” I say, handing almost all of it over to him.