Saving 6 (Boys of Tommen, #3)

by Chloe Walsh

And with those words, my mother cut me deeper and more viciously than my father ever had. Ever could.

In my head it was die or get high. And I had too many people depending on me not to die. Fuck.

So why would I ever expose myself to that kind of pain? It would be emotional suicide.”

Help wasn’t available for people like us, with families like ours. We were fucked, royally screwed, and I was too broken to keep these kids alive any longer. Not when I wanted to die.

Somewhere in my mind, I knew I was behaving in a self-destructing manner, bringing on unnecessary pain, inflicting harm upon my own body and mind, but I couldn’t stop myself. The depression eating me from the inside out forbade it.

Was I breathing? I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t care if I wanted to. And I didn’t. I just wanted to stop feeling. To stop caring. To stop, period.

This was who I was, and I had a horrible feeling that I couldn’t be fixed or put back together again.

I didn’t work right in the head, not like other people my age at least.

Truth be told, my brain was a scary place to be, and I didn’t want to be anywhere near me most of the time. How fucked up was that?

“I remember looking at this small scrap of a lad standing in the garage, down on his luck and with the weight of the world on his shoulders. That small boy asked me for a chance that day,” he added, voice thick with emotion. “I took a chance on that boy, and I’m glad that I did because the man that small boy turned into is a man who I am damn proud of.”

AWWW

“Don’t hate me, Molloy,” Joey mumbled, falling into the passenger seat the moment I let him go to open the car door. “You’re all I have to wake up for in the morning.”

“I love you. I love you. I love you so fucking much, it makes me want to die.”

I was in love with an addict. It was as humiliating as it was heartbreaking.

Sprawled on top of the filthy mattress was my boyfriend, with his eyes rolling back in his head and a needle dangling from the crook of his arm. My heart, the same heart I didn’t think could be broken any more than it already had, cracked into a bazillion more pieces.

How could I justify addiction to someone who had never lived through it? How was I supposed to make her understand that for most of my life I had been desperate to escape? That the only solace I’d ever been able to find had been in the soothing drag of a joint or a mind-altering line of coke, in the numbing effect of benzos or the thrilling buzz of uppers?

Because Molloy didn’t know what it felt like to wake up every morning with a strong inclination to attempt suicide.

If you are reading this and I reached you, connected with something inside of these characters, then know that I am with you, and I shoulder your pain daily.

fuck