A Way Back Home | Adopted by Gerard Way (Book Two)

Bottle With Butterfly Wings (13)

How can one day go from being so good to a living nightmare in such a short amount of time? My head is spinning. I feel completely and utterly lost, being that my entire life might change once again just because of one simple letter.

I told Gerard I wanted him to leave me alone for a while (which is ironic because of how desperately I don't want to leave him), and he respected that. Though, now that I am alone, the whole situation has become even more depressing because I lack the skills to comfort myself.

I haven't broken down like this in a long time, but I now find myself sobbing into my pillow, and wishing for this to be some kind of cruel joke. Or perhaps for it really to just be a long, drawn out dream that my mind created to torture me.

But I won't be waking up from this.

My sobs turn from those of sorrow to plain anger and frustration and desperation and I find myself overwhelmed, barely able to breathe (here comes those grounding techniques). And all because I hate her.

Laura fucking Barry.

Hate is a strong word, but I truly believe that that is the feeling currently coursing through my veins. That I hate that woman and the life she gave me, everything she did and put me through. I'm not sure I'll be able to handle seeing her again in person, if only the concept of doing so has gotten me in such a state.

A state which lasts at least an hour, until my eyes are dry and stinging, and my pillow is a sopping mess atop my disheveled bedsheets.

If crying is good for you, then why do I feel so bad now? Why is my throat so sore, and why am I feeling so drained, yet so full of anxious energy? Why does my head feel so heavy as it swims with memories of a life I thought I'd left behind? Even with things that I'd forgotten all about until now.

"That piece of shit!" I stumbled backwards as an empty beer bottle flew across the room, smashing on the wall, inches away from a window. "That lying piece of shit! He said he loved me."

My eyes darted around, my heart pounded. I'd have to run by her to get out of the room, and I wanted to stay as far away as possible. I settled on ducking behind the couch, flinching when I heard another bottle shatter against the wall. I bit my tongue to stop myself from crying out. My breathing came out in quick short gasps I desperately tried to quieten behind my hand.

I thought I'd seen the end of that side of my mother. The angry, uncaring, always-on-edge side. Things were almost normal— or as normal as I could imagine any life to be— with Anthony around. Sure, he didn't like me. And, sure, he treated me like something not far from a slave, but I could handle his shoving, his cigarette breath yelling in my face, if it meant my mother was kept in a good mood. And I did, for a month.

Just as I began to fear for the safety of our living room windows, the space was plunged into silence again. Of course, I could still hear my mother's heavy breathing and the pounding of my own little heart. I thought it was safe, so I slowly poked my head out from behind the couch.

I was mistaken.

My mother snapped her head up and looked at me, seething with a rage I'd never seen before. The woman in front of me didn't look like my mother anymore— or like any mother, for that matter— and she certainly didn't look only twenty-one years old. The bags under her red-rimmed eyes, along with her slightly hollowed out cheeks and drawn face added at least twenty years to her age.

I regretted giving away my hiding spot as I watched, paralyzed in fear while she pointed a shaking finger in my direction. "You," she growled.