Count On Me(83)

“Are you okay, Belle?” I hear my mom call up the stairs.

“No, but I will be.”



Kayden



I don’t know how long I laid out there on her lawn, but after staring up at the sky for what feels like hours, letting the dizziness pass, I finally start taking the steps to get up. Her last words to me are firmly planted in my head and with them running on repeat; I start stumbling across the street.

It’s time to face Dean.

No one knows this, but I dread this part. Coming home every day after practice or even just after school, I take my time driving down the street, so I can prolong it as long as possible. I hate coming face to face with him. Walking in the door and seeing his dead eyes looking through me, shows me a truth I really don’t want to see.

This is my future.

The way Dean is, slumped over in his bed or hanging off the sofa, while he’s sleeping off another bender in his boxers. That’s what I have to look forward to if I don’t do something drastic to change it. I thought nailing a scholarship would do it, hell, I even thought getting together with Isabelle and spending all of my free time over there, would be what changed the road I’m on, but it’s not. No matter what I do to change it, this is always going to be my path.

I’m destined to become Dean.

As expected, the minute the door cracks open, I’m met with a pair of angry brown eyes. This time though, the normal glaze I’m used to isn’t there. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m so wasted that my eyes are playing tricks on me, but he doesn’t look drunk.

He walks toward me and I notice there isn’t a sway in his step like usual. He’s completely straight and from the look in his eyes, growing angrier by the minute. I would prefer he was wasted; it would make this go a little smoother. There’s nothing worse than an angry, yet sober Dean. He’s twice as dangerous then.

I’m not sure if it’s the alcohol talking or what, but I start laughing again, even more hysterically then I did earlier with Isabelle. Dean not being drunk has to be some sort of sick joke right? The guy hasn’t been sober more than a day in the last six months. It’s a trademark thing for him. Who is he trying to impress being the sober one now?

“Glad you think this is funny.”

“You’re sober, it’s hilarious.”

He smirks at me, which normally would scare the shit out of me because I know what’s coming, but this time it doesn’t. I don’t feel anything. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve lost everything that had any real meaning. You become numb to what’s left.

It happens so quickly, I don’t have the time to adjust and suddenly my back is up against the wall, his hand pushing into my chest, locking me in place.

“You think you’re such a smart, son of a bitch, yet every single thing you do is stupid. You’re no better than that stupid mute bitch across the street!”

The anger inside of me rises the minute he mentions Isabelle, but the liquor I drowned myself in before has left me so off kilter, I don’t have it in me to fight him on it. Any other time, I’d have no problem shutting him up, but I really am completely empty. I’ve got nothing left.

“I didn’t bust my ass to get you on the team just so you could blow it all for a crush on a retard.”

He lands the first blow, following it up immediately with another one straight into my stomach until my body starts sliding down the wall. He releases his arm and watches me fall to the floor, the smirk now a full grin. He’s pleased with himself. Bringing people pain or at least causing me pain brings him enjoyment like nothing else.

I feel the kicks next, as he levels me with one after the other, my brain losing count after the fifth or sixth one, all of them blending together until I can barely tell them apart.

Picking me up off the floor, he lifts me in the air until I’m standing on my feet, swaying a little, but steady enough that I’m not going to fall unless pushed. He starts screaming at me, his words coming so quickly, I can’t make any of them out, his hands shoving into my chest until I’m stumbling backwards.

I hear the sound of the glass smashing before I feel the impact. It’s when I start feeling the stinging pain in different parts of my body that I realize exactly what’s happened. He shoved into me so hard that I feel backwards and smashed through the glass table. It now lays in pieces, some of them digging into my back, my legs and arms. I feel the dampness on my body and I know that not only did I break straight through it, but it broke me open in the process.

I know I should try and get up, that I need to fight back before he decides to do something even worse, but I can’t. I’ve got nothing left to fight for.