Acting Out
16 Years Old

"Do you understand why you're in here, Brady?"

Frankly, the guidance counselor at his school was a bitch. At least to Brady Beckett, she was. Nobody understood why he thought so, either. He always got the same response when he spoke his mind about Ms. Hamilton. She is not! She's so sweet and nice.

No, she wasn't. She was fake. They were all fake. Ms. Hamilton and every guidance counselor he'd seen before her. They plastered on cheap smiles and used that obnoxious baby talking that was meant to soothe but only pissed him off. He didn't believe them, any of them. But that concern never met their eyes. They didn't want to know what was wrong, they didn't want to hear any sob story, they just wanted another paycheck.

That question always made him snort a laugh, had him looking away and rolling his eyes. Dragging them back to her, they narrowed. "Are you asking me if I understand, or are you trying to figure out if I'm stupid?" His brows lifted, his tone snarky as his arms crossed over his chest. "Obviously, I know why I'm fucking here."

"Brady.." She tilted her head, giving him a condescending look. "We don't use that language in here." Chastizing. He hated that.

"Why not?" Leaning up from his slouched position in those uncomfortable chairs. They were another lie. This room was supposed to make you feel safe, comfortable. It just made him feel claustrophobic, closed off. "You say we're supposed to open up, tell you how we feel. Well I fucking feel like swearing." His tone was harsh, mean. He wasn't a fake, he didn't pretend to smile or play nice when he didn't like you. He was blunt, honest. People didn't like that about him.

"Yes, but it's inappropriate," her fake smile was wearing thin, her lips pressing together as it was getting more and more difficult to keep it in place. She tried to take another approach, her head tilting as she plastered on that false concern. Her tone low, she tried to talk to him.

"Why are you so angry?.."
Interupted. "Because you keep asking stupid fucking questions."
"You don't need to be."
"Fuck you I don't."
"Can't we be civil here?"
"Depends on you."
"Brady.. there's no one here but us. You don't have to put on the Tough Guy act."

That was all he needed to hear. The moment she claimed it was all an act, that she was downplaying him. He decided to prove her differently. Those brows lifted, staring at her as the muscles in his jaw ticked and twitched. Pressing his lips tight together, he turned his head to look away from her, nodding along as if he seemed about ready to open up.

Instead, he jolted up from his chair and grabbed the curved arms, lifting it over his head. She yelped, leaping out of the way but he wasn't aiming it at her. Instead, it crashed through the large window behind her desk, sending shards of glass flying everywhere, the chair bouncing into the shrubbery outside.

Breathing heavily, he looked down to where she was crouched on the ground with her arms covering her head, staring at him like he was a hopeless cause.

"How's that for a fucking act?" He turned on a heel and stormed out of the office, down the hall and straight out of the building, ignoring the calls of his name and the threats to call the cops.

The Ride Home
17 Years Old

The ride home had been quiet, too quiet. His mother didn't say a word, the only thing to be heard over the soft music playing on the radio was the occasional sniffle from his mother. She'd stopped crying, but that didn't change the fact he'd made her cry in the first place.

Slumped in the passenger seat, he leaned heavily on the door with his head against the window. The coolness of the glass helped with the pounding headache that rocked his skull. His eyes were directed out that same window, but he wasn't seeing any of the scenery passing by. His thought were swimming in his head, aiding to the headache and the guilt.

Not a word uttered even as they pulled into the suburban home driveway, it wasn't until the engine was cut that he blinked and snapped out of his inner torment. Silent, she tossed her keys in her purse and swung open the driver door. Watching her, he leaned some and tried to call after her. "Mom, listen. I'm," slam, "... sorry.." he sighed the word to the closed door. He lingered for a moment, looking down at his hands as they turned this way and that. His knuckles were swollen and scraped, angry at him and throbbing. Clenching them, he scowled to himself before swatting the lever and shoving the door open with his shoulder.

It was like routine at this point, but tonight seemed to be worse than the others. Maybe she was just tired, but he knew better. She was tired of him getting into trouble, tired of bailing him out of the station when he screwed up again. Tired of explaining to people why he looked like a raccoon all the time with a new shiner every week. Tired of picking up his messes, of being disappointed, of being ashamed to bring him anywhere. He knew his existence wore down his mother. He couldn't remember the last time they went to a public place together, with him making excuses not to go and her pretending she wanted him to. But he knew that she feared him flying off the wall and throwing a fist at someone who'd set him off again. The stares, the pleading from her for him to stop. He wondered if she feared him. He hoped she knew he'd never hurt her. He was rough with everything else, tossing about furniture, slamming doors and tossing things about. But he was gentle with her, the few times he'd even touch her at all.

Wordlessly, he closed the door she'd left open for him and walked into the kitchen, taking a seat at the table as she pulled out the medical box she always kept on hand these days. The silence was almost deafening as she pulled out the alcohol, dabbing a cloth with it to get the dried blood off his brow, his lip. She was gentle, her eyes on the wounds on his face and avoiding his that were looking to the side and not at her.

Wincing as she patted the wounds with the alcohol, he sighed. "I'm sorry," he muttered. He couldn't bring himself to look her in the eye. See the disappointment, the pain. It didn't matter how gentle he was with her, he still hurt her. "I lost it again." As if that was an excuse. "I'll do better next time," an empty promise. They both knew better.

She was quiet, the only sound coming from her was the audible swallow as she focused on cleaning up his face. There was a tight smile as she knew it was a lie, too. "Of course you will, honey." She turned away from him, quiet again as she considered the medical tape. A glance to his face, she shook her head. "It's already scabbed over. It would be pointless to put anything on them. The air will help it heal faster." She was rambling, perhaps avoiding talking about the incident, talking only about how to take care of the after effect.

"Thanks, Mom." His tone was bland, shut down. "You don't need to keep doing this." It was a mutter, breathy and hushed. "Bailing me out of trouble..." He trailed off, cut off by the look on her face as she finally met him eye to eye.

"You're my son." Her tone was stern, firm, as if those few words explained everything.

He stared at her for a moment, quiet as their eyes were on one another's until he sighed. He knew it was pointless to argue with her, Moms always win. He learned that at a young age. When she knew it to be true, her victory, she went about putting everything in the medical box away. "You should take a shower and get some sleep." There was a sternness in her tone that he knew arguing with would be a waste of effort. Another sigh rocked his chest as he slowly stood to his feet, every muscle in his body sore from the night before. "Okay, Mom." Standing next to her, his hand reached as if he wanted to pull her into a hug, but he stopped a few inches from her shoulder and let his hand fall to his side. "Thanks for.. you know." Gesturing to his face with a circling finger, he turned away. "And bailing me out of trouble again," that part spoken softly as he walked out of the room before she do or say anything about it.

Losing Touch
18 Years Old

One year, 3 months and 15 days since he'd walked out of his folks' home and didn't look back. It had taken him six months just to call home and have a conversation with his mother. He'd hang up at the sound of the gruff "hello?" coming through the speaker in his father's voice. Then it would take him another couple weeks to get around to calling again.

When he managed to catch the right timing, his mother's voice was soft and seemed distant. It sounded lifeless, devestated and exhausted. He didn't hang up but it took his mother pleading for whoever was on the line to say something, and when he managed to choke out a soft "Hi Mom" it had immediately sent her into tears. She'd begged, pleaded, even tried to bribe him to come home but he refused. He apologized profusely, trying to explain to her that he wouldn't live under the same roof as his the man who'd given up on him and cast him aside. The call seemed to last forever, his mother was relentless and persistent as she continued to try to convince him to come home. After a while, he managed to get in a quick "No, I'm sorry. I love you. Please take care of yourself, I'll be okay." Then he hung up.

His living situation was ever changing. A friend's couch, the very slim few he had before it was only a matter of time before he burned that bridge with his ever explosive temper. Sometime he'd sleep in an alley, beneath a makeshift fort he made from boxes tossed outside of businesses until he'd get chased off. Sometimes when he got desperate enough for a drink or a warm bed, he'd do something that... well, he'd much rather forget. Often feeling sick to his stomach for dragging himself down that low. But at least he'd have enough to drink away the memory and hope his dreams wouldn't make him relive it.

He'd find odd jobs to do when they became available. An old man offered to pay him twenty bucks to mow his lawn, unable to do it himself anymore. Each penny made was often drank through the bottom of a bottle. Sometimes he got lucky, flirting his way into a sleazy bartender's pants and it gave him a place to shower and a warm place to sleep for the night. But by morning he was gone before she'd open her eyes and by the time he showed up at that establishment again, she'd already forgotten his face.

Time left him broken in a way that it would take more duct tape and gorilla glue than he could afford, the umentionable acts needed to obtain enough cash to drown his memories which was a neverending Catch 22. He left home hating his father, and by the time of his 18th birthday, he'd grown to hate himself and everyone around him. Lashing out at anyone who even so much as looked his way.

It took one nasty bar fight, the patrons in that bar more interested in taking bets than trying to stop the fight that he started building a worse reputation for himself. At least his mother would claim it to be worse. He thought it was better. Instead of being the gutter rat people had started knowing him to be, he was the kid to bet on in the bar fight. He wasn't always victorious, many times he'd gotten tossed out of the building with broken noses, black eyes and even dislocated jaws. But it didn't stop him. Nothing could stop him. He'd found a way to make it, and he wasn't going to let anything drag him back to unspeakable things to survive.

He survived that way for another year after that. The fights got him laid more, often finding himself forgotten the faces of women he'd slept with. But it was hard to tell if it was from concussions or black out booze stupors. It was an incredible feat that he'd even wake up in the morning. But he wasn't sleeping on the literal streets anymore, he had some form of silver lining then.

And that silver lining only shined brighter when a girl with hair like a crayola gang bang showed up on a night he'd suffered one of his biggest losses yet.