A Realistic Pokemon RP
|ENERGY||Help Search Members Calendar Shop Shoutbox|
|Welcome Guest ( Log In | Register )||Resend Validation Email|
Josh is everyone's sun.
Everyone loves him: your mother, who favors him as her eldest and her first; your father, who favors him as his protégé; Bryce, who, though he might not show it, looks up to Josh; and you, who follow him around, only hoping that you can someday shine as bright as him.
He's everyone's sun, and the day he leaves, the world turns cold.
Without his warmth, you are left to freeze. You shrivel—and nobody seems any the wiser.
It starts with Hanna Kensington in the eighth grade. She calls you fat and you hit her in the mouth. Her front tooth chips on your knuckle; you'll carry that scar for the rest of your life.
Mom, who hasn't looked at you in weeks, greets you with disappointment. Your father, always busy with Bryce, always favoring Bryce, does not have time for this. Your mother, wallowing in grief, only surfaces briefly to scold you before returning to the murky depths.
You hunger. You crave their attention, their affection, their meager flickering lights in the absence of warmth from your life. You fight and you scream and you kick up a storm. Their gazes are disappointed, but for the first time in a long time, they're looking at you.
You initially think of boarding school as a punishment.
You only realize later on that it is meant as a tower rather than a boot camp; you are kept out of the public's eye so that you can no longer embarrass your family name.
It only makes you try even harder.
They nearly expel you on your seventeenth birthday.
You stole a teacher's car, drove off the premises, and promptly crashed into a minivan. They're hurt, badly, but everyone survives. It's only a promise to reimburse the family for their injuries and a promise to the school to withdraw immediately that keeps you from being arrested.
"You could have killed someone," says your mother. Days later, when the attention fades, you think that maybe you should have.
You are, if nothing else, persistent.
A stupid mantra is written on your palm one night, three shots too many into the night: SOBRIETY IS FOR QUITTERS.
Your twenty-first birthday passes without much notice. You spend most of your time drinking, anyways. As long as you are hidden away, your parents couldn't care less.
The wound inside you only continues to fester.
You almost die at the age of twenty-six.
It's only waking up in the hospital completely alone that you know things have to change.
You waitress. You were never particularly good in school, not like Bryce and not like—
(You remember the announcement at dinner one night, that your own brother has fled the region to avoid prosecution for the crime of Pokémon trafficking. You don't eat that night. The next day, all you can hear is your mother wailing. She texted him, desperate, and never received a response. It's all you can do to resist telling her told you so.)
Not like Bryce. That's all there is.
Waitressing only works when you're buzzed. You try quitting cold turkey several times, determined that you can do this on your own.
You fail stupendously each time. Then, once, you somehow force yourself through it, through the pain and sweating and vomiting, and you make it to one day and then two, and then four and then seven, and then—
And then a coworker asks you out for a drink.
He holds your hair back while you vomit. After he fucks you, he's kind enough to call a cab.
You check yourself into a rehab two days later. Only Bryce says goodbye.
There's a woman at rehab. For the life of you, you can't remember her name, but you remember her face and her voice.
You remember, distinctly, "If you're here to stay sober forever, then leave. If you're here for some cure-all for your addiction, then leave."
It's an odd welcoming, but three weeks later, when you're crying in the back of her car because you walked downtown and had a shot, you understand.
"It's not meant to be easy, baby girl," she says.
You don't hide from the group session the next day. Or the next day. Or the day after that.
And that's the point of it all: there's always a tomorrow. Another chance to redeem yourself, but even if you don't, there's always tomorrow.
You are flung from the bird's nest.
It's terrifying, being away from rehab, from your alcohol-free bubble where everyone knows you. In the real world, it's not like that. You see and smell alcohol on a daily basis. You quit waitressing before you left for rehab, but alcohol doesn't disappear from the world the day you return to it.
You start therapy. The doctor, surprisingly, comes recommended from your mother. It's an odd moment of companionship. It makes you think that perhaps there is some light left in her after all.
You attend family dinners more regularly, although it is often only your mother and you these days.
"The men are away on business," your mother jokes. You feed leftovers to the family Skitty, rubbing behind her fur as she purrs happily.
You look down at the scar on your knuckle and think of Joshua. The scar will never leave, but the wound no longer festers. Not if you can help it.
Your brother, the light, extinguished too quickly from your life; it would be better if he died, but you can't change the past. You can only work in the present.
You'll figure this out. You've always been determined.