The Probability of Violet and Luke

Chapter 2

Luke

There are always two things on my mind. Booze and money. Or booze and gambling. It’s all I can focus on because the moment I stop and I let my mind catch up with life is the moment I think of her. Violet Hayes. The one girl who wrecked me in what I once thought was a the best kind of way possible when she broke me down, made me only think about her—made me want only her. But then it was taken away. Or stolen away by what my mother did. I should have known that I couldn’t escape my past—that leaving to go to college wasn’t enough to get away from the madness that is my mother. That she would find a way to have control over my life, like she used to when I was a kid. I should have known it wasn’t over yet.

After Violet moved out of the apartment two months ago, I called the police and reported what facts I knew about the murders. It was only a little bit, but I knew I owed Violet at least that much. But the phone call hasn’t led too much, unfortunately. The police haven’t found any real hard evidence to arrest my mother, but they’re trying to and I keep my fingers crossed everyday that something will happen.

I think part of me hoped that by telling the police, Violet would come back to me. But she didn’t. And the more time goes by, the less I think she ever will. If I was stronger, I’d go to my mother’s house and search for evidence myself, even though I have no idea where anything would be. But I wonder, what could be hiding in the chaos of that house. That perfect, clean house upstairs, covers up the years of crap she’s held onto that’s piled up in the basement. But the idea of going there and seeing that woman…feeling that kind of rage with her there… it makes me afraid of what I might do to her. So the wall remains between Violet and I, building higher and higher with each moment while I die a little bit more every day.

To help wake up every day, I try to tell myself that I’ll get over Violet eventually, because time is supposed to heal all wounds or some stupid shit like that, but it seems like time is having the opposite effect on me. The wounds have become infected and their seeping through my body and rotting me from the inside out. To add to the crap going on, I got a copy of my sister, Amy’s, journal she had before she committed suicide when she was sixteen years old. I didn’t ask for the journal, but my mother found it in one of her boxes and randomly sent it to me, playing her usual mind games, trying to tear me open by reminding me of my sister’s death.

“Remember how your sister left me,” my mother said when I’d called her up after I’d gotten the journal in the mail, wondering what the fuck it was. “You need to come back to me, Lukey. Don’t leave me—don’t be Amy.”

“Go to hell!” I’d yelled and hung up on her, feeling a fire so potent in my chest, I ended up tearing apart my room just to settle down.

I wasn’t planning on reading the journal because nothing that came from my mother has ever led to anything good. But with too much free time on my hands, the damn thing started haunting me and I finally cracked. The first thing I discovered is there was no way my mother even took the time to read it before she sent it to me and she should have. The stuff on the pages paints a horrible, very true picture of the kind of sick, messed up person and mother she is. Whenever I read a page or two, I learn more and more about how much stuff was going on between Amy and my mother that I didn’t understand while living with them. For example, the time my mother tried to whore Amy out to one of her drug dealers for payment.

Twelve years old and my mother is asking me to do something that sounds so wrong at my age. To be with a guy… like that… I don’t know what to do. But she says it’ll help pay the bills and other stuff. I’m not sure what the other stuff is but I’m guessing it has to do with that shit she keeps making my brother inject in her veins, which I know isn’t diabetic medicine like my mother keeps telling me. I’m not stupid. I know she’s doing drugs.

But I wonder, if I can sleep with this guy she owes money to… give up my virginity to save the family from getting kicked out on the streets, if my mother will finally say thank you to me for helping out and that maybe, just maybe she’ll tell me she loves me.

Each word I read makes my hatred for my mother grows and the rage in my chest expand. Pretty soon I’m going to be filled with so much hate, I’m going to drown in it. So I do the only thing I can do to cope with it.

I drown myself in other stuff, just like I do to hide the pain connected to losing Violet.

For the last couple of months, my nights have been filled with booze, gambling, partying, and fights, some of which I go looking for and others are thrown at me like when I get caught cheating during a game. I know I should stop, not because it’s unhealthy, especially because I’m a diabetic, but one of these days I’m going to piss off the wrong person or take one too many drinks. But I can’t find it in me to give a shit. Live or die. It’s all the same to me anymore.

Sleep’s become a foreign concept, along with eating and drinking anything that doesn’t come in liquid form and gives me an after burn that numbs my heart, soul, and mind. When I do manage to close my eyes, my past haunts me. It’s becoming impossible to escape, so I try not to sleep as much as I can. I think it’s starting to show, at least that’s what I wonder when I walk out into the living room. Seth’s sitting on the sofa when I walk in, yawning and dreary-eyed from no sleep.

He glances up from the laptop with a disgusted look on his face when he takes in the sight of me. “No offense man, but you look like shit,” he says, closing the computer up as he takes in my sunken eyes and the healing bruise on my cheek, remnants of last weekends fight after I was accused of cheating down at Denny’s. Thankfully, the guys that hang there are a bunch of pussies and I got away with minimal scratches and quite of few swings myself. Unfortunately I can’t go back there anymore to gamble so I’m going to have to find somewhere else to make some cash.

“Shut the fuck up,” I grumble back at Seth, running my hand over my messy brown hair. It’s getting sort of scraggily since I haven’t been in for a haircut in a while. But I haven’t cared enough to go.

Seth flips me off, then rolls his eyes. “You need to get over this shit. Seriously. It’s going to kill you.”

“Get over what?” I play dumb.

He rolls his eyes again. “I’d tell you but I don’t dare say her name because you’ll give me that wounded Bambi look and then rip my head off.”

“I’m not a wounded Bambi,” I snap harshly, but have to swallow the lump forming in my throat. I snatch my jacket off the counter, before going over to the fridge. “Where the hell did the bottle of Jack Daniels go? And the Vodka?” I ask.

Seth puts his laptop aside, stands up from the sofa, and walks over to the counter area. “You finished it off last night before you went out to wherever it is you go.” He pauses like he’s waiting for me to tell him, but I don’t because I can barely remember myself what I did five minutes ago, let alone five hours ago.

I slam the fridge door and open the cupboard next to it where Greyson, Seth’s boyfriend, and my friend and roommate, keeps his stash of Cherry Vodka. “You think he’ll mind if I drink some of this?” I ask Seth, reaching for the bottle which is only about a quarter of the way full.

Seth shrugs as he leans against the counter. “I don’t think he’ll mind that some is gone since he barely drinks.” He wavers. “But I think he’ll mind that you’re drinking.”

I grab the bottle, wanting—needing—to get some in my system. I’m starting to shake just thinking about it—starting to think way too fucking much. “I always drink.”

“Yeah, but…” he trails off, massaging the back of his neck tensely.

I scowl at him. “But what? Just finish whatever it is you’re going to say.”

He sighs, letting his arm drop to his side. “Look, I get the whole drinking thing. I do it myself a hell of a lot, but Greyson and I have been talking and it seems like…” He shifts his weight, appearing uncomfortable. “You’ve been doing it more lately, particularly in the last month or so.”

“You mean since Violet left.” I ignore the knife slashing at my chest and it’s easier with the vodka in my hand.

He reluctantly nods. “Yeah, pretty much.” He blows out a breath, tugging his fingers through his blond hair. “Look I don’t know what happened between you and Vio…” He trails off when he catches sight of my face. “Her. But it’s obvious that you’re having a hard time dealing with it and you might… You might want to think about taking it easy on the shots and whatever the hell it is that you do all night.” He gives a pressing glance at my unwashed jeans and my wrinkled plaid shirt, then at my face. “It’s starting to show. Seriously, you looking like the walking dead all the time. I don’t even know how the hell you manage to go to school. And what about football practice? Doesn’t the season start in a couple of weeks? Shouldn’t you be getting in shape or whatever the hell you athletic types do to get ready for game season?”

He’s telling me things I already know and that I don’t care about, so I disregard him and start to unscrew the cap off the vodka. “I’m fine. I don’t do anything I can’t handle. And I work out all the time.” Lie. I’ve been slacking, something my best friend Kayden noted the other day when I didn’t show up for workouts. But not enough that I’ve lost a lot of muscle tone or anything and I honestly have a hard time finding the will to go, which is strange for me. My normal need for structure and order all fucked up, the only thing on track at the moment is school.

Seth shakes his head. “That’s the biggest bunch of shit I’ve ever heard come out of your mouth. You’re not fine—nothing is fine with you anymore. In fact, I think you’re about two seconds away from falling apart.”

I tip my head back to take a swig, the sweet burning liquid instantly coating my mouth and I feel twenty times better. I take a long gulp, ignoring the bland cherry flavor, then lower the bottle from my mouth. “Since when did you become so concerned about my life?” I wipe my lips with the back of my hand.

He shakes his head, disappointed by something. “Since you obviously stopped caring about yourself.”

I drop the bottle of Vodka into my bag, swing the handle over my shoulder, and brush by him, heading for the front door. “I care about my life.” Lie. “Otherwise I wouldn’t get up every day and go to class.” Another lie. The only reason I do is a) because I have a weird issue with needing structure and school is the only thing that gives it to me anymore and b) It’s the only place I get to see Violet—seeing her consistently for the last week has been worth the pain in the ass of getting up to go. And even though it hurts like a motherfucker every time I see her, I must enjoy self-inflicting pain because I still want to see her.

Seth opens his mouth to argue, but I turn away from him and walk out the door. Luckily school’s within walking distance otherwise I’d have to ask Seth for a ride. It’s a decent day and I attempt to focus on that fact as I make the way to school. But then I hear my phone ring from inside my pocket, a familiar tune, and the possibility of having a good day diminishes. Even though I don’t want to answer it and talk to her, I want to hear what she has to say—I always do—but only because I hope that she’ll finally let something slip that will help the investigation lead to her arrest.

“What do you want?” I snap into the receiver after three rings as I stumble up the sidewalk.

“Hey Luke,” my mom singsongs, either delusional or high—it’s hard to tell anymore. “How’s my little boy doing?”

“I’m not your little boy.” I make my way across the street, stumbling over the curb in the process. “So stop calling me that.”

“Oh, you’ll always be my little boy,” she replies as I approach the other side of the street and then start down the sidewalk. “When are you coming home?”

Rage burns inside me, a violent fire in my chest, as I think about everything she’s ever done to me in that hellhole she calls home. How she’s always acted like it meant nothing—that everything she did to me and to my sister Amy meant nothing. How she managed to ruin my life even when I wasn’t living at home. How she might have fucking killed someone, or at least been a part of it. All the harm she’s done. All the lives she’s ruined.

“I’m never fucking coming home,” I snap at her, causing a guy walking down the street to sidestep and put space between us, like I’m the crazy one. “I have a life now. Here. Away from you and everything you did and do.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She sounds hurt, just like the day she called me up and asked me why I’d told the police she might have been part of a murder that happened almost fourteen years ago. I told her the truth, that I knew what she did and called them. She denied everything; the song, the night where she came home with blood on her clothes, even though I saw her. And by our next phone call, she was already denying I’d told the police anything. Like she thinks if she pretends it didn’t happened than it didn’t. But it did. She ruined a life. She stole lives. She did things that she needs to pay for and that I’ll always pay for being her child.

“You know what it means,” I say. “So stop playing stupid.”

“No I don’t,” she lies. Or maybe she’s not lying. Or this is all a game to her. Maybe she’s ill. Needs help. I honestly don’t know but I’ve wondered it most of my life. If maybe there’s something wrong with her head. Regardless, she needs to be locked up somewhere, where she can’t hurt anyone.

“Have you talked to the police lately?” I cut across the lawn in front of someone’s house and ungracefully hop the fence, taking a short cut down a narrow alley.

“No, not since that night I called you about a week ago… why?”

“Just wondering if you were still in trouble,” I say flatly, grabbing onto a fence when I get a killer head rush and the world starts to spin. “Or if you finally admitted what you did.”

“I was never in trouble. They told me they had the wrong person and that it was all over and that the person that called was never going to call again.” She pauses. “Lukey, please come home. I’m lonely. Remember how Amy left me—left us. I need you. Don’t be like her—don’t leave me.”

“I’m not coming home ever.” When I reach the end of the alley, I jog across the street to the campus yard, filled with trees, green grass, and people going to and from the parking lot.

“You have to,” she whines. “I can’t take this empty house anymore… being alone… it makes me think about doing bad things.”

I pause on the sidewalk right before I step onto the lawn, fear and anger blasting through me that she’s doing this again. “Knock that shit off, mother.”

“You need to come home before something bad happens.”

I hate her even more. I didn’t think it was possible, but apparently it is, feeling the anger simmering inside me, possessing me. “I’m never coming home. That’s where all the bad shit happens!”

“Yes, you are! You are!” She starts to sob hysterically and with each sob my hatred for her expands and I grow even angrier until I’m drowning in it, struggling to get above the red blinding me. Finally I can’t take it anymore and hang up on her. But the anger still burns under my skin, simmering, festering, killing me.

I take a deep breath then another and finally reach for my bag to take out the Vodka. I chug the remainder of it, knowing I’m going to push my body to the brim of being able to function, but I need the numbness more than I need air. I need to erase this hatred stirring inside me.

After I finish it off, I discard the empty bottle into a nearby garbage can and cut across the grass of the campus yard, bumping people out of my way, sometimes accidentally and sometimes intentionally, but none of them utter a word to me. By the time I arrive at the main entrance of the campus, the trees and brick buildings are starting to become blurry and all I can see is red. Anger. Red. Hatred. More anger. I seriously almost turn around and walk back home, deciding I’ve overdid it and it’d probably be best to just go back and let myself pass out. Then I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. A beat up grey Cadillac pulling up at the curb just in front of the main building.

Violet.

It’d be okay—in fact I’d welcome it—except for the fact that Preston the fucking asshole is dropping her off. The guy’s a creepy old pervert, who sells drugs and also has Violet sell drugs for him. Not to mention he’s hit her before. I still can’t believe she went back to him when she took off. Just thinking of them under the same roof makes my skin crawl like it’s full of infected wounds. I tried to get a hold of her when I found out she’d moved back in with him, but she would never answer her phone or return my messages. When I finally did see her again on my first day of school, she pretended like I didn’t exist and it’s been that way every damn day.

I stop near the trees and watch her as she climbs out of the car. She’s wearing tight black pants, a vest, and a purple shirt that’s just short enough that I can see a speck of her side that I know is covered with a tattoo, patterns of curves and flowers inking up her ribcage. Her black and red hair is down and I can’t help but remember the few times where I ran my fingers through it and pulled on it and she moaned in response.

God, the way she moaned was incredible. What I’d give to hear it again. Touch her again… my fingers ache just thinking about it. But instead I’m stuck at a distance, watching her as she shuts the car door and turns for the entrance of the school. Then Preston gets out for some reason and when he says something to her, she pauses, halting near the edge of the sidewalk. She doesn’t turn around, just staring straight ahead at the brick building as he winds around the back of the car and toward her. If I didn’t know any better I’d think they were a couple, by the way he moves up behind her, puts his hands on her hips, and leans over her shoulder, getting close to her and pressing his body against hers.

I see a bright flash of red. Feel the fire in my chest ignite and burn through every part of my body. I want to walk over there and slam my fist into his face repeatedly, see how badly I can hurt him, especially when he whispers something in her ear. Then he adds fuel to the fire scorching violently inside me when he takes his hand and stuffs it into Violet’s back pocket, either touching her or putting something in there. Either way, it’s annoying and the compulsion to go over there and tell him she’s mine nearly consumes me. Still, I’m too drunk and am losing control of my thoughts and actions. I take a step toward them and another, stepping out of the shadows of the trees—God knows what I’m going to do—but then I come to a cold stop as Violet turns around and lets Preston lean in and kiss her.

The redness in my vision dissipates. Everything around me goes out of focus and nothing makes sense anymore. I feel cold inside and I wonder if I’ve died as I painfully realize that over the last month, while I’ve been hung up on Violet and what we had, she’s moved on. Moved forward. While I’ve been stuck in the past, unable to escape it no matter what I do.

Violet

I can’t believe what just happened. Preston kissed me in public. Of all the places he could have done it. It’s one thing for him to do it in the house, where I can shut my eyes and fall into myself, but out in the open, in front of people, it feels so real. So warped and wrong. Makes me feel so disgusting.

I wanted to jerk back, but when he put enough weed into my pocket that if I get caught I’m probably going to be screwed, then proceeded to tell me that I needed to sell it by the end of the day or else I’m out of the house, I remembered everything I’d lose. I know it’s not much, but it’s all I have at the moment.

After he drives away, I stand there, weak and pathetic, hating myself for it. By the time I reach the door of my first class of the day, I’m stewing in all sorts of emotions and have the most overpowering urge to turn away from the classroom door, bail out on class, and instead go find something reckless to do. The problem is I never miss class. It’s my one goal in life—my only accomplishment.

As I’m heading into the classroom, I’m a little distracted, and react slowly as someone enters the doorway at the same time. Our shoulders collide and I step back, angry Violet rising and ready to take it out on someone.

“Where’d you learn how to walk?” I say coldly. The second I say it though I catch the scent of Vodka, cigarettes, and cologne; a scent that I’m very familiar with. I glance up and am greeted by a pair of intense brown eyes, an unshaven jawline, scraggily brown hair, and a pained expression that I’m sure matches mine. “Luke.” I don’t mean to say it aloud but it slips out. He looks terrible up close, a bruised cheek, and dark circles under his eyes, exhausted, and a gnawing feeling forms in my gut as I wonder if it’s my fault he looks this way. I want to ask him what happened, but emotions slam through me, filled with invisible razors, needles and fire, so potent and painful I can barely breathe. I want to touch him so badly. Kiss him. Feel his tongue slip into mine. I desperately want everything we had a couple of months ago. The smiles. The rainbows. The sunshine and even the ridiculous cheesiness of dates and flirting even though normally I couldn’t stand it. But with Luke things were different. I’d more than welcome it all right now if it meant it could get rid of how I’ve been feeling.

But it can’t—nothing can erase the past and despite my want for him, just being near him reminds me of my parents. And how I ran from him because that and what I did with Preston. I should move away from him, yet I can’t bring myself to do so, finally feeling alive for the first time in two months. I hate to admit it, but it’s true. I’ve been a walking zombie, a hollow shell, like I was for so many years, but not at this moment. And apparently neither can he. So we end up standing there, staring at each other, stuck somewhere between reality and the make believe land we wished existed; the one where monsters never showed up at night at my house and his mother wasn’t one of them. The one where we could touch each other and not have to think. The one were we could be together and not hurt. The one we had before we found out the truth.

It’s the first time we’ve been this close since the truth was discovered and it’s more powerful and potent than I ever imagined. We don’t speak, move, breathe, even when people file in and out of the classroom doorway between us. Our eyes are locked, our breaths ragged. The longer we stare at each other, the more confused he looks and the more lost I feel because I’m not moving away. Instead I feel like I’m being pulled toward him, or maybe it’s more that I’m falling. I’m not sure. And I don’t want to be sure. What I want is for time to stand still, right at this moment, so we never have to move forward again.

But then his lips part, and everything around me unfreezes. I have no idea what’s going to come out of his mouth. If I’ll hate it. Like it. Want it—maybe. And maybe I’ll take it.

I never get to find out, though, because the Professor walks between us and breaks the moment like glass, the sharp pieces exploding and scattering around us. We’re both abruptly reminded that make believe is just that and doesn’t really exists unless you live in a fairytale.