Endless (Reckless #2)

Endless - Chapter Six

Chapter 6

Nash - March

The last time I celebrated my birthday was when I was seven - before my life basically turned to sh*t.

After my father became obsessed with alcohol, my birthday was just like every other day. No one would remember it; well, except me.

I don’t want to turn into a f*cking charity case when I say this, but I think it needs to be said.

I celebrated my birthday every year in the confines of my room. I had my own small cake that I scrounged from the few dollars I kept saved up. I even sang myself happy birthday.

It was only me.

No one else.

When I met the rest of the band, they insisted that I go out to some bar and get drunk every year on my birthday. I rejected every time. I didn’t want the reminders of the days that I spent by myself.

I just wanted it to be like every other day.

And that’s how it’s been.

But now, now it’s different.

I’m different.

My father’s gone. My mother and I are getting better. And I moved on from the one thing - one person - that’s gone.

So maybe some change is good.

***

When I woke up this morning, I never expected that I would end up here. I mean, who would’ve thought after years of endless torture, I would come here for solitude?

It’s hot outside - the surprisingly warm March heat beating onto my back. I’m sitting on the grass, legs outstretched, a bottle of beer in my hand.

Let’s face it: this is definitely a good time for beer.

I bring the rim of the bottle up to my lips and down a sip, the taste leaving a bitter flavor in my mouth.

My eyes roam the black words etched into the rock: “Beloved Husband and Father. You will always be in our hearts.”

I scoff and speak out loud, “Yeah, right.”

The cemetery is a small one, surrounded by fields and trees. There’s few graves and no ones around. Supposedly my grandparents are buried here, but I never bothered to check.

Why check up on someone who never checked up on you?

Why waste your f*cking time?

I take another sip of the burning alcohol, letting the sting take away from the heavy thoughts running through my head.

“I’m twenty-three today, Dad; if you even care.”

I don’t know why I’m speaking out loud, why I’m talking to him. The mix of the alcohol and everything I’ve had bottled up for years take over.

I lie back, looking up at the sky, one arm underneath my head, “You know, I don’t remember the last time you said Happy Birthday to me. So what the h*ll am I doing here, on my birthday, looking at a person’s grave who gave me nothing but sh*t?”

“And I’m laying here, acting like a f*cking crazy person who talks to the dead. You know, I never understood why people do this; why people come to talk to a piece of stone. They’re not going to get an answer back.”

Closing my eyes, I take relief in the silence and darkness. I should just leave. I have no purpose for being here. Yet, I can’t find the will to leave.