Crave Me

Someone has sewn me shut and tied me to a bed They locked me up, locked me up Oh, God

My feet slap against the wet asphalt, misty rain hits my face and drips from my hair. Breathe in, breathe out.

This is where they all throw me to the wolves Dragged behind and trampled on I can’t keep clawing at the jaws of hell The silence is killing me.

Slap, slap, slap. Music roars in my ears, leaves crunch under my feet, my heart pounds with a rhythmic thud.

Nothing to calm the nerve Write down my thoughts and read me my rights Repeat, repeat, repent and repeat.

I run because it’s the only time the world leaves me alone. The air is sharp enough to bite my lungs awake. I keep my pace punishing, breath burning, muscles screaming, like if I slow down, reality will catch me.

Running carves the noise out of my head. It makes everything simple. Left foot, right foot. Inhale. Exhale. Don’t think. Slowing my pace, I stop as I reach the end of my street. My sweater sticks to my back as I pull my headphones out of my ears. Resting my hands on my knees, I lean forward to catch my breath. The music is still audible as my ear buds swing from around my neck.

I look up, down the street towards my house, squinting to keep the rain and beads of sweat out of my eyes. I can just make it out, hardly able to recognize the flaking white paint and rotting green pillars from this distance. With a deep inhale, I begin a steady stride home, counting the beats in my chest one by one; never letting my gaze shy away from it. I can never bring myself to run back, to whatever it is that will be waiting for me there.

I dreadfully drag my feet up the unpaved driveway and stop at the bottom of the first porch step. It’s oddly quiet, which I find suspicious. Cautiously, I take another step, followed by another. As I reach the front door, I hear a crash and angry yelling. The smash causes the door to rumble against the frame. I flinch at the unexpected eruption and step back instinctively. I hear yelling, arguing, followed by another crack.

Keeping my eyes fixed on the door, I reach into the pocket of my gym shorts and pull out my cell phone. I allow myself to look down briefly to find her number and hit the call button, holding it against my ear before returning my attention to the front door.

Answer the phone, Addy. Answer it.

Three rings pass and I’m ready to hang up before I hear her response. “Hey,” She greets cheerily. Thank God. “Where are you?” I ask as she ruffles around on the other end and I can hear talking and laughing in the background. “I left for school early,” she tells me. “Why, what’s up?” Relief releases some of the tension in my neck and shoulders. “Don’t worry about it,” I answer and wipe the dampness off my brow with the back of my sweater sleeve. I jump off the side of the porch and make my way around the side of the tiny bungalow.

“Aaron…” She drags out in warning. “What’s going on?” “Not sure,” I respond truthfully. The window to my room slides up with a familiar scrape, paint chipped from years of careful exits and even more careful returns. “I’m not sticking around to find out. I gotta run.” I hang up before she has a chance to respond, and grab hold of the windowsill. With a grunt, I haul myself inside, landing softly, already listening.

Voices bleed down the hall. My mom’s, thin and frantic. Ryan’s, low and ugly. “You took it,” Ryan snarls. “Don’t play stupid with me.” “I didn’t touch your shit,” my mom shoots back, too defensive to be convincing. “You’re always losing track of it.”

It’s 7:40, which means I have forty minutes to change, get out, and board to school if I want to make it on time. I creep to my door and close it gently, turning the knob so not even the latch clicks. I yank my sweatshirt off my head and remove the wet T-shirt that comes along with it.

Using a discarded towel, I wipe the coat of sweat off of my chest and back and throw it away. I pick up a new T-shirt from my bed and smell it as I kick my shorts off and replace my boxers. I watch the door too, making sure no one comes in unwelcome. Ryan laughs, sharp and humorless. “Funny how it only disappears when you’re broke.”

I throw on a decidedly clean enough shirt and slide on a pair of jeans with a rip in the knee. Sitting on the bed, I slide on my shoes and bend over to tie the small and broken laces, hardly clinging together. I watch the door again. They are still yelling at one another, but I don’t have the time or energy to meddle in what they are bickering about.

Grabbing my skateboard, I run a hand through my hair to partially tame it as I quickly look around for my backpack. I move carefully, every step measured. I just need to grab my bag. Leave. Pretend none of this existed.

The underestimated weight of my backpack pulls me at an awkward angle and causes me to stumble forward and into my dresser. I kick over a garbage can and knock an old bottle of cologne to the wooden floor with a crash.

Shit.

The arguing stops. My heart thuds wildly. “Aaron?” I hear, suddenly pleasant in the way predators get. “That you, kid?” I don’t answer. I bolt for the window. Too slow.

My door flies open, slamming into the wall. Ryan fills the frame, broad shoulders, bloodshot eyes already searching for someone to blame. “There he is,” Ryan says, smile twisting. “You rooting through my stuff now too?” “I didn’t touch anything,” I say backing up, not wanting to engage. Ryan steps closer. “Why are you always around when shit goes missing?”

I feel the familiar pressure behind my ribs, the instinct to swing first and get it over with. My hands clench at my sides. My mother hovers behind Ryan, silent now. Watching. Always watching.

“Get out of my room,” I say evenly. Ryan laughs again and shoves me, just enough to test the distance. “Don’t touch me.” I warn, my temper rising to a boiling point. I don’t have time for this. “Or what?” He dares, a sneer cracking his horribly aged face.

He grabs a fist full of my shirt. I attempt to pry his fingers off. When he doesn’t let go, I use as much force as necessary to push him away from me. He stumbles back into my bed, but he is quickly on his feet and he lunges at me with a raised fist. I duck, pivot, and launch myself through the window, glass rattling as my feet hit the ground outside. I don’t look back.

By the time I’m on my skateboard, backpack secured, heart pounding too hard, the house already feels unreal. Like something I’d imagined poorly. I push off hard, wheels humming against the street, wind tearing at my face.

My name is Aaron. My last name is Scott, though it’s unimportant in this story. It’s too well known in every Child Services Center in the country, and frankly, it doesn’t mean shit to me.

I guess the day my story started was the day my father walked out on us twelve years ago. Both my twin sister, Adrianna, and I were six at the time. A slammed door. A car that never came back. Adrianna crying into my shirt like I could fix it. Four long years wasted waiting on his return.

Our mom unraveled. Pills. Bottles. Men like Ryan drifting in and out like bad weather. At ten, the state decided we were better off elsewhere. They were wrong.

Foster homes blurred together after a while. Some ignored me. Some hurt me. All of them taught me the same lesson - don’t get comfortable.

I learned how to fight early, learned how to look dangerous enough to be left alone. Hung out with older kids. Got into trouble on purpose. Authority figures didn’t scare me. They disappointed me.

The lady from Child Protective Services managed to find Addy and I a few foster homes where we could stay together, but none of them lasted longer than a month. The families claimed to not be able to give us what we need, or some other made-up bullshit that doesn’t matter. Personally, I think we came with too much baggage.

We were hauled from one foster care home to another, with barely enough time to unpack in between homes and shelters. No family left, no one willing to care for the troubled kids with a dark past and an even shadier future.

At eleven years old, Adrianna and I were separated. With no possibility of communication, I had no way of knowing where my sister was taken. I stopped counting the days after that.

I bounced from place to place, carrying her name like a talisman. Got mean. Got numb. Took whatever made things quieter. CPS, along with everyone else, thought I was a lost cause. I was. I probably still am.

At fifteen years old, by some sort of miracle, Adrianna found me. She showed up out of nowhere with her stubborn hope and that look that said she wasn’t leaving without me. She told me to come home. Told me we could try again. I still don’t know if that had saved me or doomed me.

I learned early that addiction doesn’t announce itself with drama. It creeps in quietly, takes a seat at the table, and starts eating whatever’s left.

My mother has been an addict for as long as I can remember. Pills are her language of choice. Antipsychotics she doesn’t need. Pain meds for injuries that come and go depending on who was asking. Stimulants to feel sharp. Downers to sleep. Anything that sands the edges off the present until it doesn’t hurt so loud. Anything to not be here.

I knew the names before I knew the rules of multiplication. Knew which ones made her slow and syrupy, which ones turned her jittery and mean. Knew how to count bottles without touching them. Knew how to read her eyes. The worst part wasn’t watching her take them, it was recognizing the hunger. Because it looked familiar.

I used to be a good kid. I remember that version of myself faintly, like a photograph left too long in the sun. I talked too much back then. Asked questions. Loved words. Loved arguing just for the fun of it. I loved making people laugh, loved learning things just to know them. Teachers had called me bright. Curious and promising. Somewhere along the line, those words got replaced. Trouble. Volatile. Destructive.

Someone once told me it was in my blood. That I was simply born with an insatiable tendency for destruction, like a cracked foundation waiting for weight. That it wasn’t my fault, exactly, but it was inevitable. I didn’t know whether to laugh or break something.

Pills make the noise quieter. Make the memories blur at the edges. Make it easier to forget that I’d once been someone who believed the future was something you built, not something you survived. And I hate that my choice of relief matches hers. I hate that when I swallow something, it feels less like rebellion and more like inheritance.

And some nights, when the house is quiet and the bottles are lined up like witnesses, I wonder if destruction really is something you’re born with. Or if it’s something learned.