“Go home, Rhett,” I mumble shakily, refusing to look at him.

Elbows resting on the dining room table, I allow my head to drop into the palms of my hands. My left leg bounces restlessly beneath the counter.

I can sense him shaking his head, the frustration and heat of his body oozing off of him.

“Oh, fuck you,” he spits out, voice low, and betrayal is evident in the way he speaks.

It makes me shamefully wince.

“You want me to leave?” he presses. “Mason, damnit, look at me while I’m talking to you.”

My stomach ties itself into knots.

“Please.” he begs, yet I cannot get my body to move.

There is a moment of silence.

Then another.

“Say something, Mason,” he demands. “I need to hear your voice.”

With tear-stained eyes, I manage to lift my head and meet his gaze. Narrowing my eyes, I glare at him.

“What do you want me to do?” I question, every part of me slowly breaking.

Trembling, I push the chair back and stand up. “I don’t fucking understand what I am meant to do!”

Fully facing him now, I choke out, “What am I supposed to do,” all of my emotions resurfacing.

He flinches away from me, and I freeze.

I blink.

Realization dawns on me, followed by an uneasiness that makes me want to vomit.

Rhett Houston just flinched because of me.

“No,” I breathe, desperation clawing at me, tearing me apart when he retreats his footsteps.

“Rhett, no,” but he isn’t listening to me, and my chest is heaving.

He turns around, and I chase after him.

“I am not him,” I whisper, feeling like the helpless kid I was at nine again. “I am not my fucking father, Rhett!”

I am unable to breathe.

My lungs are burning.

Itchiness at the back of my throat causes me to gag.

“Do you hear me?” I yell after him, reaching for his hand, but he yanks it away. “I promise I’m not him.” I cry, finally breaking down.

He pauses at the entryway, hand on the doorknob.

“I am not my father,” I repeat, imploring him to hear me. “I refuse to be.”

There is an unsettling edge to his voice when he tells me, “I never said you were, but the fact you feel the need to convince me anyway speaks volumes.”

My surroundings are blurring together, a mess of colors and shapes.

“Look at me, Rhett. Do you see any of his DNA in me?”

Hesitantly, he oblidges and peers at me, but his expression is unreadable.

“Do you?” I push.

Biting his bottom lip, he twists the handle, and it clicks.

And without another word, he leaves, closing the door behind him.

My legs give out beneath me as I wail, and I collapse onto the wood floors in a heap.

“Fuck you,” I bite out a minute later, biterness seeping into my head, my thoughts.

Regret swallows me whole almost immediately.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize to nobody.

Sobbing, I begin to tear at the floor, anger and a thousand other emotions threatening to pull me apart even more than they already have.

I am weak, rendered helpless.

Hopeless, too.

“Get me out of here,” I practically shout, sitting uncomfortably in my body.

This skin does not belong to me.

The backdoor creaks, but I cannot stop the tears from falling down my face.

Thumps from boots echo down the hallway.

Hyperventilating, I rub my eyes, trying to see who it is.

“Mom,” I strangle out, even though she isn’t here anymore—with me anymore.

A figure appears in the archway.

“Hey, son,” the shadow slurs, and my memory racks my brain for the correlating face.

It registers, and fear paralyzes me entirely.

My body goes limp.

“Get away,” I whisper, too tired to raise my voice.

A lazy grin takes over his features.

“Get the fuck out!” I attempt to scream, voice hoarse and surprisngly quiet.

“Your friend isn’t here anymore, is he?” my father ignores my protest.

For a breif moment, it feels as if my heart stops beating.

I know exactly what is going to happen.

Eyeing the bottle of alcohol in his right hand, I decide it will be better if I break it and use a shard of glass to slit my wrists.

That way, I can be done with it all.