Page 5 of Seven Lost Summers (Broken Oasis #3)

Theo

Age: Thirteen

“F

uck

this

shit!”

I

scream, my voice breaking, as it rips through the air.

My father stands there-smug, towering, acting as though he fucking owns me.

I had a few weeks where I could almost breathe, where the walls didn’t close in every time I blinked.

Nate’s place gave me that. A quiet space, something close to fucking peace.

But the second he saw me on the street everything was over.

No warning. No words. Just his fist tight in my hair, dragging me back, a piece of trash he forgot to throw out.

I remember exactly what he is… every cruel word he carved into me, every promise he set on fire, every twisted fucked-up reason I had to run in the first place.

I didn’t leave to be dramatic. I left because staying was a slow death.

And now I’m back under his roof, choking on the same poison I bled to escape.

Fuck him.

And fuck the sluts he drags through that front door night after night.

Same giggles, same dead eyes, same high-pitched moans ripping through the paper-thin walls like clockwork.

I’ve been hearing the same sounds for years.

Lying in bed stiff as stone, pillow crushed over my ears, counting the seconds between the headboard slams and his grunts, pretending I’m anywhere but here.

He dragged me back into this shit as though nothing’s changed, like the last few weeks away didn’t mean a goddamn thing. Back into the stench of weed and whiskey. Back into a house that reeks of sweat, smoke, and silence.

I used to wait for him to be more than this lowlife with a temper and a hard-on for power.

But he never was. Not with the way he uses his fists.

Not with his words or the parade of hollow replacements for the woman who left before he could ruin her too.

His anger doesn’t come in bursts; the rage seeps into the air, into my fucking bones.

Every word he’s ever spat at me still echoes, a loop I’ve been forced to live in since I was old enough to understand that love doesn’t live here. Only rage and control.

That’s who he is.

And my mother…

Fuck if I have a clue where she is. She walked out as if I were nothing. No note. No goodbye.

Straight-up vanished. Left me in this godforsaken hellhole with him. I’m just a worthless piece of shit she forgot to take with her.

What kind of mother does that?

What kind of person abandons their own kid to a man such as him? She fucking understood what he was like.

The drinking, the yelling, the busted walls and broken bones.

She was aware of the pills and the cash he stashed behind the drywall.

Hell, half the time she was worse… sprawled out on the floor, needle still in her arm, eyes glazed over like she’d already decided this world wasn’t hers to live in.

And still… she left. Left me here with the devil and called the whole damn thing mercy.

After she left everything got worse.

The door never stopped swinging, one junkie after another stumbling in, reeking of booze, smoke, and whatever they were shooting up that night.

Chasing a high, a fight, a reason to forget they existed.

They’d scream, smash shit, bleed out on the tiles, too wasted to notice the kid huddled in the corner, knees pulled to his chest, biting down hard enough to taste blood to stay quiet.

Fighting to survive. He kept his eyes shut tight, like that would stop the fists, the groans, the sick thud of knuckles meeting skin.

And when the silence finally came, there was no peace; only the kind that presses down on your chest and whispers, “no one’s coming to save you. ”

Every time some strung-out loser pounds on that door, another crack runs straight through what’s left of my sanity.

The pressure building inside me, coiling tighter with every second I’m trapped here.

I watch them stumble in, dead-eyed and twitching, chasing the next hit, the next escape, while I sit frozen, hoping to hell none of them looks at me the wrong way, like so many have before.

Every knock has me flinching. Every slammed door’s a loaded threat.

When my father fucks up, I’m the one who pays the price.

They don’t go after him. Never have. They come for me, thinking putting their hands on me will somehow get through to him. Believing that beating the shit out of me will make him care. As though I was the one who blew the cash, missed the drop, fucked up the deal.

I want out.

For years, I’ve clung to the thought of Nate’s place.

That it’s some distant world where the walls don’t bleed and the air doesn’t smell like fear.

Where a knock at the door doesn’t mean danger…

where people talk instead of scream. Where I’m not bracing for pain every time the floorboards creak.

A place that seems like maybe, just maybe, I could breathe without it hurting.

But I’m not there.

I’m stuck here in this fucking nightmare, suffocating in it, chained to this life I can’t wait to escape. One day, I swear I’ll tear myself free. I’ll rip these chains off, burn this place to the fucking ground and never look back.

Bass rattles the walls, loud and angry. The sound floods the house, seeps into my bones, drowns out everything that still hurts.

He’s high again. He’s been twitchy as hell ever since he dragged me back here, restless, paranoid, snapping at shadows.

Something’s going on. I can sense the truth in the way he moves, the way he won’t look me in the eye.

Knowing him, he’s fucked up again. Screwed up something major. Somehow, I’m certain I’m the one who’s gonna bleed for this.

With him distracted, I sense this is the moment.

My shot.

My one fucking chance.

I slip into my room without a sound, heart in my throat, and shove the window open.

Cold air hits my face like a slap. My hands tremble against the ledge.

I get one leg over. My pulse hammers in my skull, louder than the fear, louder than the voice screaming, "don’t". Freedom’s right in front of me, close enough to taste, burning on my tongue like something I was never meant to have but might steal anyway.

The door slams open like a fucking explosion.

A crash.

A shadow.

The weight of everything I’m trying to outrun shoves its way into the room.

My heart stalls, but panic kicks harder. I lurch forward, scrambling to lift my other leg, to throw myself out the window before the chance is gone. But it already fucking is.

He’s on me in seconds. Charging across the room like something feral, unhinged.

I barely catch the frame before his fist snatches a handful of my hair and yanks me back so hard the room tilts sideways. Everything spins… light, shadow, ceiling… ending with a thud.

My back hits the floor. All the air is knocked clean out of me. I can’t breathe. Can’t move.

My body screams, but I stay silent as he drags me across the room by my hair.

Every nerve burns, every inch of my scalp is on fire.

His grip tightens, twists, punishes. The pain is sharp enough to blind me, to drag a sob straight from my chest. But I swallow the scream.

I won’t give him the fucking satisfaction.

I’ve been here before. I understand how this plays out. Screaming feeds him. Fighting gives him something to swing harder at. And I’ll fucking die before I give him that power.

So I clench my jaw until the bone threatens to snap, swallow the cry choking its way up my throat.

Every nerve is screaming, every muscle begging for the pain to stop, but I don’t make a sound.

I shove the sensation down. Bury it deep where he can’t reach.

Lock it behind everything I’ve already had to become to survive.

Because if I push through this, I might still have a chance to get the fuck out.

One day. I whisper the words in my head like a curse, over and over.

A broken prayer, a promise laced in blood.

This won’t last forever. Eventually, he’ll be the one on the floor, choking on the same fear he’s forced down my throat.

Someday, I’ll be the one standing over him while he begs—just like I used to.

By the time we hit the living room, he’s breathing like a fucking animal—heavy, uneven—but his grip doesn’t slip. His fist stays locked in my hair, knuckles bone-white, like he needs to hurt something just to remind himself he’s still in control.

He halts beside the busted coffee table, grabs a half-empty beer bottle with his free hand, and downs the drink in one long, messy pull.

Foam spills down his chin, soaking into the coarse stubble along his jaw.

When the bottle’s dry, he hurls the glass without a second thought.

I don’t need to see the impact—I hear the sharp, splintering crash as the bottle explodes against the wall.

Another mess. Another piece of him I’ll have to dodge.

Next comes the joint. He lights up as if it’s a ritual; the flame flickering long enough to catch before the tip glows red-hot.

He takes a slow drag, savoring it like peace is something he can inhale.

Smoke spills from his mouth in thick, curling tendrils, drifting toward me, sinking into my skin, my clothes, my lungs.

It pollutes the air, thick enough to drown in.

And I’m stuck there, forced to breathe it in—his poison, his power, his fucking way of reminding me I’ll never be free.

As though the thought only occurs to him that he’s still got a hold on me, he leans in.

Too close. His heat bleeds into my skin as his breath ghosts over the back of my neck, reeking of cheap liquor and rot.

It coats me like a sickness, crawling across my nerves, leaving everything inside me recoiling.

My stomach twists, bile burns at the back of my throat, and my skin prickles, begging for space I’ll never get.