Page 5 of Quiet Rage (Wicked Falls Elite #5)

Thankfully, they let me leave after class without any more than a few catcalls and whistles, but I can live with that so long as it means getting the hell out of here and off campus for the rest of the day.

Forget sticking around for Psychology. Instead, I go straight to the lot, where my car starts on the first try. Finally. Something went my way.

I don’t understand people. Maybe I’m the problem.

Believing it’s possible to live and let live.

I mean, would it have killed them to leave me alone?

Like the people who decided to make fun of me in class.

Why? What did they get out of it? Do they feel better about themselves now?

I guess I should be glad I don’t understand, since if I did, it would make me just as heinous as they are.

Not that I’m perfect or anything, but it would never occur to me to hurt somebody on purpose like they went out of their way to do.

Driving home should be a relief. I should feel a sense of peace and safety as I pull up in front of the house, right?

I did a long time ago. Back when I had a living, breathing brother.

Back when I had a mom who wasn’t completely checked out all the time, trapped in a world of deep pain.

She’s locked herself so far away, I don’t know if I or anyone else will ever be able to reach her.

Maybe it would be cruel if we did, because where she is, Jason is alive. In the past, when things were good. Every day, she takes a trip back there, a bottle of vodka her ticket.

The way I’m feeling right now, I kind of wish I could join her.

But first, I can’t move from behind the wheel.

Dad’s minivan is here—he’ll want to know why I’m home so early.

He desires my success much more than I do.

Sometimes, I think it’s all he has left.

The house is uncomfortable enough when only one of them is home, but when they both are?

The air is thick enough to suffocate me.

Closing my hand around the doorknob, I take a slow breath, brace myself—then open the door.

The TV is on, as always. Mom is wearing her bathrobe over the pajamas she’s worn for at least the past three days. Her hair used to be so pretty, shiny and golden, but now it sits in a dull bun on top of her head. Next to her on the end table is her usual vodka on the rocks.

If she thinks there’s anything strange about me coming home at this time of day, she doesn’t show it. Instead, her head swings slowly back toward the TV, where a black-and-white musical plays. She likes them most of all. They make it easier for her to escape.

We don’t live in the nicest house, but it’s nicer than most on this side of town—or it was back when my parents had the time and the energy for upkeep.

The downward spiral that started the night somebody gunned Jason down snowballed in no time, and now everything around here is dingy and cluttered no matter how much time I spend straightening up whenever I get the chance.

Mom is a zombie, and Dad can’t bring himself to care, even on the good days.

He’s in the kitchen now, working on his laptop. He never explained why he came home with a black eye and a split lip on Monday. First, he would have to acknowledge the fact that he’s wounded. Instead, he’s been acting like nothing’s wrong. We do a lot of that around here.

He looks up, scowling at the sight of me. “What happened? Why are you home?”

“My professor didn’t show up for class. We waited fifteen minutes, then left.” I can barely hear my excuse over the pounding in my head. I have to go back there tomorrow. How am I supposed to go back there tomorrow?

He turns his attention back to the laptop. “That gives you more time for your studying.”

Yes, because in Dad’s world, things are that simple. So simple, he never even noticed the stains on my clothes. He would have to pay attention to things in order to do that. Little by little, he’s disconnected like Mom has. His way of coping.

Even though I really should eat something to silence the cries of my empty stomach, I leave the kitchen and go up to my room instead.

It’s not like I’ve never gone without food.

Not like there haven’t been entire days when I couldn’t get out of bed.

I had my share of dark days before the drive-by, but afterward?

The regular, functional days became rarer.

And forget good days. There’s no such thing anymore.

As soon as I’m in my room, locked away from the rest of the world, I strip off the clothes I only put on a few hours ago and pull on leggings and a tank top before flopping onto the bed.

My heart is so heavy, it hurts, but I can’t bring myself to cry now.

I’m alone, and nobody would ever know, but I don’t have it in me.

Not when all I can do is remind myself I have to face those people tomorrow. I can’t drop out—Dad would never get over it. It’s like this is the one good thing he’s still holding onto. Everything hinges on me doing well, being a success. Making him proud.

The pain in my chest gets worse until I can hardly breathe. My heart’s pounding when I place a hand over it, fast enough that I wonder how much faster it could get before it would kill me.

I kind of wonder if I could make that happen. Because otherwise, I’m going to have to endure the same humiliation I endured today. Over and over.

And I just don’t know if I can take it.

Reaching for the headphones on my nightstand, I tuck them into my ears and pull up a playlist of instrumental music I listen to whenever I start to spiral.

Whenever I need to relax. I think this definitely qualifies as one of those times, lying here, wishing my heart would explode so the agony of my existence might finally come to an end.

Maybe it would erase the image of a certain smirking face that for some reason makes my body hum with an energy I’ve never felt before.