Sprinting across the parking lot, Adrian jerked his jeep's door open and climbed in. Slamming the door, he screamed and punched the ceiling, "Damn Murphy's law. My life's such shit."

Reaching under his seat, he grabbed his keys from the floorboard. Stabbing the jeep's key into the ignition of his 1998 jeep grand Cherokee, he stared at Gram's key chain.

A beaded creation complete with a tiny metal dream catcher, the key chain not even close to his style, but he'd never have the heart to replace Gram's dream catcher with a skull or a pot leaf.

Rubbing the metal dream catcher between his thumb and forefinger like a worry stone, he shut his eyes and wished he could go home to and tell Gram, "Mom's lied about who my dad for seventeen years."

And, she'd call this one a real whooper, since she talked like that.

Sighing deeply, he opened his eyes and swallowed hard and stared out the windshield.

But, Gram would never answer him again, or shake her snow white head and shrug, as she excused whatever Mom, her granddaughter, had done this time.

Her words echoed in his brain.

"She's always been flighty." Or, "She doesn't always think." Or "She doesn't mean to hurt you." Or, "Don't take it so personal."

But how did he not?

Now, she'd never excuse Mom again, since, they'd buried Gram almost three years ago beside her husband and her two baby boys that died young, right after his ninth grade spring break.

His chest tightened and breathing became hard.

Yeah, okay, she'd had been in her eighties. And he knew death's a natural part of life, and she'd lived a long time.

She'd gone to her reward, to heaven and was in a better place.

Yes, he knew all that, but if he just gotten up earlier, if he'd called 911 earlier, while she'd still been breathing, she might have had a chance and stayed with him longer.

God knew he wanted that chance. He wanted her to stay with him since Mom never did.

Jesus, he missed her.

But, the hard facts are that you don't get a do over in real life, and he'd stayed up late playing video games and slept in, while his Gram died on the kitchen floor.

Alone, without him.

He'd gotten up late.

Breakfast sat on the counter, ready for him to cook. He did the cooking since Gram set the kitchen on fire a few years back, and he'd taken over the task, banning Gram from cooking if he was not in the room.

The cost of his silence.

But he'd gotten up too late.

Regardless, he hadn't touched a video game since, and he'd learned a valuable lesson.

Life's not a damn video game.

You don't get another chance.

No do overs.

Eminem's lyrics were spot on; "you don't get another chance," and life's not a video game.

And that was the God's honest truth.

His chest heavy, he scrubbed his face.

Pushing his stomach against the steering wheel, he groaned and pressed harder. He eyed the thick rubber bands on his wrists and considered popping them.

But today's cuts hurt enough to feed the dark inside him, and his mind churned, worrying his dad's name and the what if's.

Yet, he didn't want to think about what ifs.

Raising his blood stained t-shirt, he looked at his bandage.

Coach had done a good job doctoring him up, the bandages lay white, crisp and smooth on his skin, but the man could be right. One of his cuts looked red and infected.

Could he be more of a screw up?

He knew to keep his cuts clean.

Another clear fail on his part for this day and lately he'd excelled at failing.

Dropping his t-shirt, his mind whispered, Gram would have a royal fit about cutting.

His cutting started after she died, so she'd never had a say. He'd never even thought about doing it until a kid at school bragged about how much better he felt after cutting.

So the kid sowed the seed, and he'd cultivated the idea by wondering and obsessing about doing the deed until one day he'd done it.

He'd taken a blade from the kitchen drawer and, slowly, he'd cut his stomach.

It'd hurt and he'd wanted to get caught.

Yeah, in the beginning, he'd wanted Mom to catch him.

He'd cut and waited to get busted.

Hoped to get busted cause cutting hurt.

But no one saw him.

Like Harry Potter, he possessed his own cloak of invisibility, since no one noticed and time marched on.

So, he'd kept doing it waiting, hoping, to get caught.

So, he kept cutting over and over, year after year, waiting for someone to stop him, hoping someone would stop him.

And, yeah, Gram would have busted him right out over the blood on his clothes. And she'd have nipped his little problem straight in the bud.

Her words not his.

He grinned, knowing she'd have stopped him cutting back in those early days before cutting became a habit, before cutting became the way he dealt with the emptiness inside. Now he didn't know if he could stop even if though he'd promised.

At least Ms. Anna knew now and didn't hate him. She'd surprised him, her and Coach. He'd expected disgust and hate from both of them.

But, no, Coach, unexpectedly, hadn't yelled at him, even though the man would, no doubt, be a real hard ass and would insist he stop cutting, probably threaten to kick him off the team or some shit like that if he didn't stop. Probably do body checks and shit.

Yeah, Coach would shut his cutting down and now.

Relief filled him that maybe he could stop, maybe he could get help and someone would finally step up and make him stop punishing his body.

And thank God, he wasn't in trouble with the man the team called Walker Stocker, aka his sperm donor dad, aka his probation officer, and aka the man who'd fainted when he found out he was his kid.

A small crazy laugh bubbled out of him, and he bit his bottom lip and released it.

Craving a cigarette, the need to smoke hit him hard. Jerking the ashtray open, he knew he'd find it empty, knew he'd dumped it on purpose to stop him from cheating.

But he opened it anyway and no, the cigarette butt fairies hadn't stopped by.

Slamming it shut, he cursed.

How stupid to quit! He liked smoking. It tasted good.

Liar, cigarettes tasted like shit, made him stink, were bad for him teeth and Coach's running pace killed him at practice.

The man ran his and the teams legs off and his lungs couldn't handle practice. Gasping, he struggled every day to keep up and hated being the last man on the team to finish.

The second time he'd finished last, he'd quit smoking, and he hated admitting it, but in a few short weeks he already breathed and ran better and now didn't finish anywhere last.

He could barely believe those damn cigarettes carried that much poison.

But now he needed to smoke and ached to cut.

Damn it!

Gripping the steering wheel of the jeep he and Gram had nicknamed Blue, he put his head down thinking about how over the years, cutting had become a habit. Cutting became a friend, something he could fall back on, as he'd withdrawn more and more, leaving everyone else behind.

Today, he'd gotten careless, but he'd been getting braver and braver, pushing his luck, just like cutting in school and before practice.

It figured Coach would finally bust him out. He grudgingly respected the man, while he pressed on his fresh wound and groaned.

But how could he not cut?

Especially now that his world had exploded?

And why had he stupidly promised Ms. Anna, he wouldn't cut for two whole days? Crap, Ms. Anna knew about his dad now too. They all did. Her husband, Coach and Ms. Felicity too.

Shit, Ms. Felicity worked at the hospital. He was completely doomed if Ms. Felicity gossiped. Fuck, everyone would know before he got off work tonight. He hoped she could keep a secret or the entire town would know by the weekend.

He didn't think Coach would talk. Coach was tight lipped and all business. He had to admit he trusted the man to keep his cutting and who his father was to himself.

Dear God, times like this he missed Jordan, wished he could talk to him right now. He would freak out about who his dad was.

But, Jordan was fighting for his life.

"Hey, God," he looked up, "please help heal Jordan and let him keep his legs. Jordan's a good guy, even if he isn't being a great dad, but you know she asked him to step back. Okay, he smokes pot but remember you made it. Please let him get better, soon, in the lord's name, amen."

Yeah, he had his faith. Gram hardly ever missed a Sunday, and she'd taken him to church when he was small and he'd drove her to church later. He still attended most Sundays.

Oh, he didn't shove church down people's throats, but the guys knew he was a Christian, and they didn't give him shit about it. He liked church and he wasn't ashamed of it. His faith soothed him, and he was a member of the youth group.

He grinned because his and Gram's church never forgot him even after she died. He'd withdrawn and they'd reached out with food and home checks. They became his family as everyone from the pastor to youth director, and other church members called him, and he'd kept going to church and kept his faith.

But even they never realized he cut.

Now Jordan had frowned more than once at him. He had a feeling Jordan knew. They'd been neighbors his entire life, and Jordan stopped by often to give him a hard time cause that's what guys did. And Jordan would stop by in the evenings to smoke pot, or somedays, he'd invite him to eat dinner at his house.

Jordan's mom cooked fantastic, and he'd quietly sit back and watch their loud, loving family, and he'd sat on the fringes so long, he'd become almost a part of their family, especially on holidays after Gram died.

Leaning his head against the steering wheel, he teased the idea of having his own family, and a real dad and an almost cop for a dad who had family in town.

Wow, he had family. But seriously! The man's the teams' probation officer. How could this be a good thing?

The fallout would become hurricane force in an instant and destroy everything. And the gossips would have a major field day. Gram would say this bode well for no one.

Especially him.

Stupid thing was that his already sucky life was about to get real trashy.

His head pounded as his thoughts raced.

"Adrian!"

He turned his head.

"Wait. Please!" His mom ran toward the car, waving her hands.

What the hell? Mom didn't run after him. Come to think of it. Mom didn't run.

And she didn't say please.

Would this day of surprises ever end?

#####OQ#####

Good news. I have finally launched my website and the next chapter of this story is already up on my site. I will post the next chapter on this site in one week's time, but I will always stay at least one bonus chapter ahead on my site.

www. Write4tvfans. Com

Just remove the spaces and select Bonus Chapter on the top bar when you get there.

As always thanks for the read, remember I love comments, stars and all the rest and welcome to my new site.

Bad News

I have no internet currently at home so I can not respond to any comments until next week, unless the internet fairies have fixed it. Not likely, NOT LOL

P.S.

Who knew building a website was so darn hard.