The Boiling Point | ✔️

26 | stress relief

ASHTON

There's this dream I've been having for years. A nightmare. It comes and goes, but when things get rough, it overstays its welcome. This is the longest stretch I've had it.

Here's how it goes: I'm in a huge maze of concrete walls. It's dark and cold, and I'm running so fast my lungs feel like they're being ripped open from the inside. I'm just running and running, aimlessly, smashing into walls. Trying to escape.

Then, I see a light, and I breathe of breath of relief. I'm almost there. I can taste it. But the light is behind a glass wall, and I crash through it. That shattering sound is deafening. Shards pierce my head, my back, embedding my skin.

Something picks me up, a force I can't control, and it drops me in the middle of the maze. And it starts all over again. Every time, without fail, I end up right where I began.

I jolt awake with a hammering heart, my skin clammy with sweat. My thoughts gather as the noise from the TV creeps through my door, overtaking the anxious air. When I go to grab a glass of water in the kitchen, I find my dad's snores contributing to the noise. The harsh light of the TV blares over him on the couch. Over his mess. I watch him as I drink, my thoughts darkening with each second.

I never thought I could hate him more than I have in these last few weeks. It feels like a disease in my chest – the hate I feel for him. It's only spreading. Only getting worse. And it's different. Summer made it different.

It's like when he realized I felt something more for her, he unlocked a new type of pain. A pain he's never been able to use against me before. Hurting Summer hurts me just as much as a blow to the gut does, except this bruise will never fade. It only deepens as the days go on and she drifts further away.

And he fucking loves it. This psychological shit. This whole situation, it's a sadist's wet dream.

My eyes flick to a couch cushion, and my hands itch to shove it over his slack face. He's been drinking all night, it would be so easy. God knows I've been tempted, especially that day he spoke to her at school. I guess that's become my wet dream: killing my father. Man, talk about being well-adjusted, huh? I guess hatred and sleep deprivation aren't exactly a great combo. 

I walk past him to the coffee table, and no sooner have I picked up the remote, I'm being slammed against the wall.

My stomach spikes as my glass shatters to the floor, the cool blade of a pocketknife pressing to my thumping throat. Dad's crazed eyes are inches from mine. He's breathing heavy, staring like he's not even seeing me. 

"Dad what the fuck! It's me!" I strain under the blade, keeping as still as I can.

He presses the knife down, until I feel the stinging and I know he's drawn blood. He blinks, sudden recognition filling his clouded eyes. "What the hell are you creeping around for?" he growls through clenched teeth.

"I was turning off the TV!"

He measures me up and finally drops the knife, ambling to his room and muttering something about enemies. Aside from taking pleasure in wrecking my life, I've noticed how on edge he's been lately. But it's not the first time.

With the shifty clientele he gets involved with at the shop, owing people money, screwing people over... this is far from the first time, and it sure as hell won't be the last.

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I'm fighting off my burning eyes in the courtyard at school, lighting the next cigarette as I memorize a beef wellington recipe. Down to the last grain of salt, I'm learning this shit like the back of my hand, chain-smoking through lunch. This is the routine now. Cramming textbooks and recipes and French terms into my head during any free time I have.