Chapter Text
Travis' POV
Goodbye, Boston, hello, Huntington Beach!
My mom has always loved to travel. We're never in one place for long. But this time, we're here to stay. Allegedly.
Deciding to give your children a stable life barely a year before they go to college is definitely...a choice, but what do I know?
So, here I sit, packed in a 1970 VW Beetle—one of the cliché sunny yellow ones—with my mom and my younger brother, Connor, on hour forty-two of a forty-four hour drive. Why couldn't we have just flown? I don't know.
Connor is leaning on my shoulder, asleep. I wish I could sleep too, but every time I fall asleep, I'm jolted awake by whatever sixties bullshit my mom is playing. It's not like I have anything against Bubblegum, Lemonade, &...Something For Mama or anything, but it gets to a point, y'know?
I reach into the pockets of my sweatpants, searching for something to fiddle with. I'm growing restless.
My fingers brush something cold and metallic. I can't quite recall what it is or where I got it from just by feeling it, so I pull it out.
It's one of those cute little Italian charm bracelets.
I think I might've stolen it.
...
Okay, obviously I stole it. It's not like I'm going out and buying bracelets for myself. I think I might've snatched it from some girl I met on the train.
She was pretty, a brunette with dazzling blue eyes. She was sweet and funny. When I grabbed her hand—half because I wanted to touch her and half so that I could snatch her jewlery—her hand was warm and soft. I took a ring from her too.
I wonder if she misses her bracelet.
I steal a lot of things.
It's my curse.
I just can't let things be. It's not my fault. Really, it's more my mom's fault than anything. She's the one who fell for the god of thieves.
I look most like my mom, but she always tells me that I act like my dad.
The stealing, the compulsive lying, the mischief, but also the charisma, the strange bouts of eloquence, the athletic ability.
I personally think someone as flawed as I shouldn't be compared to a god. Like, at all.
I wonder how many things I've taken unnoticed. How many lies I've told when the truth would've been perfectly fine. I wonder why people trust me when they know the kind of guy I am.
My head pounds. Connor is snoring too loudly. His head feels too heavy on my shoulder. My mom taps her long nails on the steering wheel. The sound seems tinny and far away, but it's still grating. I want to yell at her to stop. I reach for my water bottle and take a sip, but I almost choke on it. I find myself unable to swallow.
I want to cry, but I can't. If my mom hears me cry, she'll start asking questions. I don't know what's going on with me or why I'm upset or what's wrong. But I know that I don't want to answer any fucking questions right now.
I want a cigarette.
But I can't have a cigarette because I'm in the car with my mother.
Instead, I reach for my bag, my hands shaking like a coked-up chihuahua. I pull out a bag of those candies that only old people buy.
I manage to open the bag of cherry sours and pop like six of them in my mouth like pills.
I remember something I heard once. 3-3-3.
Okay. I can see my backpack. Out the window, I can see the highway. I can see Connor, who is now drooling on my shoulder.
I can hear the music my mom is playing. I can hear the bumping of the wheels on asphalt. I can hear Connor snoring like a chainsaw.
I rotate my neck. I wiggle my fingers. I try to tap my toes to the music, but it only serves to piss me off more.
No, Mama Cass, I don't want to make my own kind of music.
I want to fucking kill myself.