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The plate flies from Connor’s hand before he even realizes what’s happening. A knee-jerk reaction. It misses Zoe by a couple inches, smacking into the cabinets behind her and shattering in a glittery splash.
She yelps, jumping sideways to avoid the shards. “What the hell Connor?” She snaps. “You’re a fucking psychopath!”
He scowls at his sister, jaw clenched. “Fuck. You.” His chest is on fire, her words scraping against his skin.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spots Cynthia in the corner, eyes wide and a hand over her mouth. Of course she’s acting fucking helpless. Of course. It only makes him angrier, red pressing at the edge of his vision.
“Jesus Christ Connor!”
He whirls to face Larry, hands balling into fists. “Why is it fucking fine for her to say shit like that? Why is it okay for her to call me a freak or a psychopath and shit?”
Larry’s face is flushed, expression furious and disbelieving. “You threw a plate at your sister! You could have given her a concussion!” He exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “For god’s sake, if you keep acting like this you’re going to end up in jail, Connor.”
The way he says it—resigned, helpless—only throws kindling at the fire running through his veins. “Jail?” he hisses. “Is that all you’re worried about? Because I’m just a fucking monster who’s going to end up murdering someone?”
“You are a monster!” Zoe snaps, eyes cold and fiery. “You prove it over and over!”
“Zoe, come on.” Cynthia presses weakly.
“No!” She calls back, cutting their mom off. Cynthia flinches. “Why are you defending him? He’s fucking crazy!”
“I’m crazy?” Connor shouts, volume slowly rising. “Right, I’m crazy. I’m FUCKING CRAZY. And you just poke and poke and poke and act fucking surprised when I snap?”
“Connor,” Larry snaps sternly. “You need to calm down.”
He just glares, heart is racing, breathing fast and shallow. His nails dig into his palms, hard enough he thinks he may have broken the skin. FreakfreakfreakFUCKINGCRAZYCONNOR.
“I need to calm down?” He spits the words like vomit, the taste sour in his mouth. “That’s always what it is. ‘Calm down Connor.’ ‘Stop being such a problem Connor.’ Maybe you’re right!” The words start to tumble out faster, tripping over each other. “Maybe I am a monster! Maybe I am crazy! Maybe I should just go kill myself already!”
He finally stops himself, chest heaving like he just ran a marathon. Cynthia makes a pained noise from the corner. “Connor, baby, don’t—”
Larry’s groan cuts her off. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “This again? Cynthia, he just wants attention. He wants us to feel bad.” He turns to Connor, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You can’t just say those things whenever you’re upset. Do you understand what it does to your mother? To Zoe and I?”
He laughs, but it’s bitter and rough and wild. “Like any of you give a shit about me? If I died you’d just sweep it under the rug and go on with life.”
“That’s not—” Zoe interjects, but stops herself, biting her lip. The shame in her eyes stabs through his chest.
Cynthia starts instead. “That’s not true. Connor, we're your family.”
He’s already turning, stalking toward the front door. He snorts harshly. “Like family means anything?” Cynthia and Larry follow him, but he watches Zoe slip upstairs out of the corner of his eye. Asshole.
He pulls on his shoes as quickly as possible, not bothering to tie the laces. “I don’t want you leaving like this!” Cynthia pleads, voice the strongest it’s been.
He glares at her. “Too fucking bad.” His voice is grating and empty.
She goes silent. Like she’s just completely given up. He grates his teeth together, yanking the door open. It’s cracked from a chair he threw when he was fifteen. One of those wooden kids chairs, but it still made an impact.
“Let him go,” Larry says, tired, like this is just another mess he doesn’t have the energy to clean. “He needs to cool off.”
Connor doesn’t give Cynthia an opportunity to argue. The door slams behind him, cold air hitting his face, and takes off down the sidewalk. He pulls his phone from his pocket, the case warm against his fingers. Opens his contact list without thinking.
He never thinks anything through when he gets like this.
He scrolls to the bottom of the pathetic list and clicks on the second to last number. There’s only one text, from months ago. This is Jake.
His fingers move without any kind of plan, words forming underneath them. He turns left on the corner of the street, not bothering to check for cars, making for the park.
He hits send. I’ve got forty dollars. Meet me at Ellison State Park.
The reply is close to instant, just a yellow thumbs-up emoji. Connor pockets his phone and tugs his hoodie closer.
It’s freezing, something he failed to think about when he left the house. All he’s wearing is a t-shirt and his thin, worn-down jacket. About an inch of snow dusts the sidewalk, crunching underneath his boots.
At least I put shoes on this time. He thinks dryly, breath clouding after he exhales. The last time he stormed out, he’d ended up walking down to his car in nothing but socks.
The word monster keeps echoing in his head, over and over until it doesn’t even sound real anymore. Until it’s just a fact, no longer piercing his chest. I am a monster.
The park comes into view, barren trees dusted with white glitter. The lampposts along the path flicker on, casting a weak yellow glow into the empty parking lot. They don’t quite reach the ground, leaving long patches of dark between them.
He leans against one of the poles, reaching into his pocket and fishing for a cigarette, joint, whatever—just anything to keep his hands busy. He finds a half-used cigarette and his chipped lighter, sparking it and taking it to his lips.
The smoke curling in his lungs calms his heart a little. He takes another slow drag, scanning the parking lot for someone that might be Jake.
He finds him a moment later, hopping out from a beat up truck. There’s a cigarette between his fingers, hanging lazily as Jake strolls up.
“Cold as shit” he says, grinning, like it’s the revelation of the century. “Need a new supply?”
Connor just scowls, raising an eyebrow. “I want pills,” he replies bluntly. “Something stronger than weed.”
Jake raises an eyebrow, unsurprised. “Knew you’d cave eventually,” he snorts, like this is just an everyday occurrence. Although for him, it probably is. “You got the money?”
He nods, grabbing his phone and snapping off the case. He hands Jake the two twenties he keeps behind it, his numb fingers struggling to grasp them a little. Jake takes them without a word, and counts fast.
“Be back,” he says, already turning back towards the car.
Connor takes another drag from his cigarette, watching the smoke as it curls towards the sky. He shivers a little, tugging his hood over his head and stuffing his hands in his pockets. His teeth clatter once before he clamps his jaws shut defiantly.
The truck door slams, making Connor flinch despite himself. The sound echoes too loud in the empty darkness.
Jake heads back over, hands tucked in his pockets this time. “Here,” he mutters, thrusting a small paper bag into Connor’s hand. “That should be a couple weeks supply.”
He nods, tucking the bag in his hoodie pocket without a word. Jake turns back toward the truck, then pauses and glances back. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a knowing smile. “Text me when you need more.”
When. Like there’s no way he won’t.
Connor stays silent, staring after him. Jake snorts softly, then turns and jogs back to the truck. The door slams again, but Connor doesn’t flinch this time. He just watches the headlights flood the darkness as the engine rumbles to life, and the car disappears down the road.
Connor finally moves, turning towards the forest. He heads down the path, not caring enough to turn on his phone flashlight. Slices of moonlight filter through the trees, illuminating the ground just enough that he isn’t tripping over his own feet.
Eventually, he finds a small, dark-colored bench and sits, wincing as the chill of the metal seeps through his jeans.
Not the greatest place to die. He thinks dryly, scowling at the stained, slushy snow and worn bench. His teeth chatter, as if reminding him of the biting cold. Good thing I’m not picky.
He tosses his cigarette on the ground, grinding it into the snow with his heel. He pulls out the bag, grabbing the pill bottle and stuffing the paper sack back into his pocket. The bottle is orange and unlabeled, plastic smooth in his hand.
His heart picks up uncomfortably, breath catching in his throat. Why am I hesitating? He demands, clenching his jaw as irritation flares hotter than fear. He’s wanted this for a long time. Long enough that it should be easy. Long enough that any kind of fear or regret had slipped away.
No one will fucking care—he knows that. He’s known since Zoe started flinching or scowling every time he walked through the door. Since Larry stopped looking at him without a frown. Since his mom’s smile stopped reaching her eyes.
This has been the plan all along. The one solution to everything he can’t fix.
Still, his pulse pounds—loud and traitorous.
Maybe it’s some hidden survival instinct clawing its way up at the last second. Some stupid, automatic response that went dormant until everything became real. Something that waited until he was at the edge of the cliff to whisper ‘don’t jump.’
Idiot brain.
He’d had a flask of Larry’s whiskey in his messenger bag—a half-empty bottle he swiped days ago. It would’ve been helpful to take the edge off. Calm the shaking in his hands. But that had been unfortunately left in his bedroom along with his car keys.
God. He couldn’t even plan his own death properly. Figures.
So instead, he unscrews the childproof cap and tips the bottle into his palm. One small, white pill lands in his hand before he closes his fist around it.
He knows some people—real, hardcore druggies—use this shit to get high. There was a reason why Jake ended up in rehab.
Fine. He’ll get high first. That’ll deal with the anxiety twisting in his chest, drown out the half-buried instinct whispering don’t. Then he can be done.
He lifts his hand to his lips, and swallows the pill dry.