Tied

I’d never pinned her for the shallow type. I was wrong. Just like I was wrong about a lot of things and a lot of people. I was served a crash course in reality after I was pushed into that fire, and it still eats at me like acid because this isn’t supposed to be my life and I don’t know how the hell to change it.

I shouldn’t be driving, drunk and underage with a bag of drugs in my pants, but I drive home in a rage anyway, not giving two fucks if I get pulled over and thrown in jail.

By the time I get home, it’s after 2:00 a.m., and my father is in the dark living room, dozing on the couch with a horror movie playing on the television. My parents always go to bed together, so I can only assume he stayed up to wait for me. I creep by him on my way to my room, but I trip over a dog toy in the middle of the floor and then bang into the coffee table, which I could’ve sworn was two feet to the right.

“Shit,” I mutter, rubbing my shin.

My father stirs and sits up, squinting in my direction against the glare of the television. “Ty? That you?”

“Go to bed,” I reply, swaying.

Instead, he stands and flicks on the lamp next to the couch, narrowing his eyes at me.

“You look like shit.”

“Thanks, Pop.”

“I can smell the alcohol on you from here. You been drinking again?”

Obviously. I lean against the wall to keep from falling on my ass. “Don’t start, okay? I’ve had enough shit for one day.”

He steps closer and grabs my shoulder, pulling me off the wall. His six-foot-four muscular frame looms over me. My father was a bad ass back in the day, and he’s still tough enough to kick my ass if he wanted to.

“Stand up like a man, Tyler,” he says. “You drove home like this?”

My vision blurs, and I see two of him in front of me. “Yeah…”

“You tryin’ to get killed? Or kill someone else?”

I blow out a breath and shove my hand through my long tangled hair. All I want to do is lie down before the nausea rippling through me makes a messy appearance. “No…just blowin’ off some steam.”

He rubs his forehead in frustration. “This shit is gonna stop. Today. Your mother and I aren’t going to sit back and watch you throw your life away—”

“What life, Pop?” I scoff. “What fucking life do I have?”

“Any life you want.”

“Like this? Looking like this?”

“Scars don’t define you, Tyler. What you do—and how you treat others—does. You’re hurting. You’re mad at the world. I get it. More than you know.” A hint of sadness and regret deepens his tone. “But people live with far worse problems than what you’re dealing with. Stop letting this ruin you. You’re better than this.”

No one seems able to grasp that, to me, I am ruined. Broken and wrecked and wandering around lost without a compass. “Well, sorry I’m such a big disappointment to you. Thank God you got five other kids to be proud of.”

His eyes soften, my words hitting him like a punch. “That never even crossed my mind. I’ve always been proud of you. You’ve always been special. But you need some help getting out of this fucking hole you’re in. You think I’m just going to let you get drunk and high every day?”

“I’m nineteen. I can do whatever the hell I want.”

“Not under my roof you won’t. And not in my business. This bullshit of coming to the shop stoned every day is gonna stop, too. It’s time to grow up. I want you in rehab tomorrow.”

No way am I going to rehab to sit around with a bunch of drunks and addicts sharing my feelings and listening to theirs. I’m not like them at all, and I’d rather gouge out my own eyes and ears than put myself through that.

“Fuck that.” I push past him, but then I turn back. “And ya know what? Fuck all this. I’m outta here.” I fish my keys out of my pocket. “I’ll just get out of your house and your shop for good.”

His shoulders drop as he sighs. “Tyler…just go upstairs and sleep it off. We’ll go together tomorrow. In a few weeks, you’ll be clean with a much better outlook on your life. Trust me.”

An obnoxious laugh erupts from me. “I seriously doubt that.”

Ignoring him as he continues to talk to my back, pleading with me not to leave, I stumble out of the house and jump on my bike, with him chasing after me in his bare feet. I glance back to see him stop halfway down the driveway—waving his hands at me, probably cursing me out—as I tear down the street.

Music blasting from my earphones quells my mood slightly as I ride up to the mountains, the only place I feel at peace, away from everyone. My bike tears up the dark, twisty mountain road, heading to a lookout point where I can pull over, roll a joint, and stare at the stars until this never-ending pain deep in my chest subsides. Tomorrow I’ll figure out what the hell I’m going to do next, but I definitely won’t be going to rehab or facing my parents. The last thing I need is more hospitals, doctors, and counselors telling me I’m going to be okay. None of them understand how not okay I really am.

And probably never will be.

It’s pitch black when I pull over to the remote dirt area that overlooks the towns below, but the glow of my cell phone gives me just enough light to find the old fallen tree I sit on every time I come up here. I watch the tiny car lights in the distance as I smoke the joint I just rolled, my only company the occasional breeze and an owl hooting off in the distance. Despite my peaceful surroundings, Wendy’s words continue to echo in my ears.

It skeeves me out.

Yeah, she was probably a bit drunk, and obviously in the midst of a fight, but she meant what she said. There’s a lot of truth in the words of angry people. There was a time when I thought I loved her, but I felt nothing but pity and disgust when I saw the bruises on her face. If I had ever really, truly loved her, it would have enraged me. I would have hunted that douchebag down and beaten him to a pulp, even if she wasn’t mine anymore. Maybe we never really did love each other. I reach into my pants, pull out the bag of drugs, and swallow two pills dry. I wait for the bitter pills to drag slowly down to my stomach before I grab my cell phone and press the speed dial for my oldest brother, who picks up on the fourth ring

“Yeah?” his deep, groggy voice bellows from the tiny phone speaker.

“Tor…it’s me.” I clear my throat of the burn. “Can I stay at your place for a while?”

“Ty? What the fuck? Do you know what time it is?”

“Around four…maybe. I think. Not sure.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Sorta. Among other things.” Hey, at least I’m an honest junkie.

His exasperated sigh travels through the phone. “Where are you?”

“Up at the lookout smokin’ a few.”

“Tell me you didn’t drive up there.”

“Nope.” I exhale smoke and watch it drift away into the dark. “I took the bike.”

“Seriously, Ty?” His voice grows louder as anger wakes him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you out of your fucked-up mind?”

“Skip the lecture, I’ve had enough for one night. Can I just stay at your place for a few days? I’m going through a rough time…”

The sound of sheets rustling sifts through the background. “No. I’m going back to bed. And I’m going to wring your neck next time I see you.”

Click.

“Asshole.” Standing, I snuff out the joint and put the roach in my pocket for later. He could have easily said yes, especially since his band is going on tour and his house is going to be empty. What’s the big deal if I stay there? He can fuck off too, along with everyone else.

I start up my bike and ride into the brisk mountain air. It’s just me, the road, and nature, and maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. My body relaxes, my mind eases, and I sink into the numbing, welcoming haze.

It was dark, and there was light.

Flashing, burning.

There was warmth, and there was ice.

Melting, oozing.

I was flying, but I had no wings.

Floating, drifting.

Until there was nothing at all.

And the silence screamed the loudest, crying to be heard.

“Tyler?” My brother’s voice booms through the fog. “Just nod if you can hear me. Stop trying to move.”

Tor is singing Pink Floyd songs. Why?

I nod, not wanting him to sense my confusion. The familiar sterile, bleachy smell and the faint beeping in the background bring me to the slow realization that I’m back in a hospital.

“I convinced your doctor to let me tell you what’s going on, but he’s right outside the door and he’s going to come in after I leave. Are you okay with that?”

I nod again, niggling fear mounting when I realize I can’t move or talk. And my brother is acting weird, talking to me almost like I’m a child.

“You’re going to hate me for a while, Ty. And that’s okay, because I hate you right now too, because I need you, and you’re a mess. I’m gonna make this short and sweet because I can’t be in six places at once.” He coughs into his hand. “You crashed your motorcycle into someone’s house. You went right through their living room wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.”