Prologue
Some people wake up and feel like the world is waiting for them. Liam woke up and felt like the world had forgotten he was there.
The hallway light flickered like it couldn’t make up its mind—on, off, on, off—buzzing faintly with every shift. Liam sat on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, fingernails digging into the raw skin of his palms. The door was shut, but that meant nothing. Noise didn’t need permission to enter.
Down the hall, a bottle clinked against the edge of the kitchen sink. Heavy footsteps. A pause. The creak of the old cabinet door. Then silence.
He knew that silence.
His heart kicked up against his ribs. His body had a memory of its own, reacting before his mind could catch up. Every beat of quiet stretched like a wire pulled too tight, waiting to snap.
He counted backward from ten. It was something the counselor at school had told him to do once, back when he’d actually gone to appointments. Back before he stopped trying. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven—
The crash came at six. A plate? Maybe a glass. Then his mother’s voice, too quiet, too nervous, the way she only got around him.
Liam’s fingers trembled, pressing harder into his palms. His room was cold, even though it was the middle of spring. The vent hadn’t worked in months, but no one had bothered to fix it. Why would they? He wasn’t worth that.
He stared at the wall. There were three posters. One for a band that broke up two years ago. One for a video game he never played anymore. And one—ripped at the edge—of a beach he’d never seen.
He heard his name.
Low. Sharp. Slurred.
“Liiiaaam.”
He didn’t move.
“Come out here.”
Still.
He’d learned long ago that being slow sometimes helped. Gave his mom a second to redirect him. Or gave him a few more seconds to exist in peace before the next storm hit.
“Liam!” this time louder, crashing through the hallway like a freight train.
His mother said something—pleading, probably—but it was useless.
The footsteps started. Floorboards groaned. One. Two. Three—
His door slammed open.
Liam didn’t look up. His eyes were fixed on the corner of the room, where two lines of paint didn’t quite meet. It was dumb, but he liked the imperfection. It reminded him that even walls got tired of holding things in.
A shadow crossed the floor. Then fingers—calloused, rough, always smelling like sweat and whiskey—gripped his arm.
“I said come out here, you little shit.”
Liam flinched. Not at the voice. At the heat in it. Rage always came in waves. He could ride some of them out. Others buried him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Liam said, already regretting it.
The slap came fast. Cheek to shoulder. His ears rang.
“You’re always doing something. Sitting here like some sad little freak. You make this house feel like a damn morgue.”
Liam didn’t reply. He knew better.
“You think you’re too good for us? That it? That why you walk around all quiet, like we owe you something?”
His mom stood in the doorway. Makeup smudged. Hair pulled up in a messy knot. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t stop him. She never stopped him.
The man stepped closer. “Say something.”
Liam wanted to scream. To shove him. To say, You don’t even belong here. But what was the point? No one would take his side. Not her. Not the school. Not the system that already chewed him up and spit him out without blinking.
He looked at his mom. Her eyes flicked away.
“Thought so.” The man grunted and turned, knocking over a stack of old mail on the way out. “Pathetic.”
Later, when the man was gone—passed out in the recliner, a half-empty bottle of cheap bourbon on his chest—Liam sat back down on the bed.
His jaw ached. His cheek was red. He didn’t cry. Not anymore.
He opened his drawer and pulled out the notebook he kept hidden under his socks. Inside were scribbles. Some poems. Some letters. One page was just a list of things he hated. Another was full of “what if” questions. Most of them started with “what if I wasn’t here.”
He turned to the back. The last page. Blank.
He started writing. Just a sentence.
I’m tired of feeling like this is all there is.
The pen dug into the paper.
I’m tired of waking up and not wanting to be awake.
He stopped writing.
His breath caught in his throat. The quiet in the house now wasn’t threatening. It was empty. Hollow.
He stood up. Walked to the bathroom.
Didn’t make a sound.
Locked the door—not that anyone would notice.
He sat on the cold tile, knees pulled to his chest. The cabinet under the sink creaked when he opened it. Inside, half a bottle of prescription pills. Not his. He didn’t even know what they were for. Just that they were there. And they could stop things.
He held the bottle in his hand.
Then put it down.
Picked it up again.
The mirror across from him reflected someone he didn’t recognize. Pale. Eyes rimmed red. Mouth clenched shut like he was holding everything in.
He opened the bottle.
He took one.
Waited.
Then two more.
Waited.
He lost track of how many after that.
His vision blurred. His limbs felt far away. Like they belonged to someone else.
He leaned back against the cabinet. Closed his eyes.
Then the door handle rattled.
“Liam?” his mom’s voice, too casual at first. Then sharper. “Liam, open the door.”
He couldn’t.
He wanted to say something. Anything.
But everything was fading.
The door slammed open, wood splintering at the edge.
She screamed his name.
He heard it echoing somewhere far away.
And then—
Nothing.
