Going 78 Miles Per Hour | ✓

38 | Engine Fumes

SÁBADO
12:41 AM

Reid Harlow

"I'm fucking scared," I declare out of the blue, the words slicing through the silence like a knife. I don't even know if Presley is awake, or if he's sunken into a deep sleep after today's family football game—but I just had to say it. The words were throbbed in my throat, waiting to be acknowledged, and I had absolutely no one to turn to.

The slick of midnight appeals to me, and the room illuminates with the glow of the moon. The light shines through the slits of the blinds, shadowed on the floor. The ceiling being the showcase of my nighttime entertainment.

No one replies. At this point, I'm certain Presley wasted away on his pillow and I'm stuck staring at the ceiling, wishing for an outlet of release. I wanted Dahlia, out of everyone in the entire goddamn world, to be here with me, but at the same time—I realized how detrimental our relationship is.

"Why are you scared?" Presley responds back, and a rustling of his sheets is heard from the other side of the room. I didn't want to face him, admit defeat, so I continue to stare at the ceiling, wishing for stars instead of rust.

I'm picking at the day we were driving, and Dahlia was driving recklessly. She nearly killed us, but I can't help but remember the way I raised my voice at her. Sure, I panicked and the anger consumed me in a flash—but I could've done better. I could've told her without innating a flight-or-fight response, and I could've talked to her without the anger clutching my throat.

I fucked it up.

"Dahlia once asked me what my greatest fears were," I told, tears pricking the corner of my eyes. I let them fall. "I told her I was afraid of becoming attached to someone again, or to fucking lose someone close to me—I even added that sometimes, I'm living my greatest fear."

I pause, sucking in a choke breath, the ceiling feels like it's collapsing on top of me. "That's far from the truth. I thought I didn't have an immediate fear because I don't have any attachment to anyone but, I realized I fucking do."

The words startle me as I release them, "I'm afraid of becoming like her father."

The tension presumes, thick and unnerving as I await the next few words that could either make or break me. I never fucking care about what anyone had to say about me before—I welcomed their assumptions with open arms—but this time, I do. It's not because of Presley's opinion, or anyone's—it's because I'm fucking afraid of knowing the truth.

When you're met with a truth, in your own mind, it consumes you. You revisit every fucking occasion where you presented this ideology, you break your spirit and your mind just to prove yourself that you aren't. It's a guilty conscience and a despicable appetite, but you do. You want to be the opposite, you want to be better, and you want to do and believe anything that makes you feel otherwise.

But all my interactions, all my thoughts, come back to one final conclusion: I am exactly like her father.

"What are you...what are you talking about?" Presley asks gravely, his voice oozing with worry. "Dahlia's father? You're afraid of becoming like him?"

"It's not a fucking joke,"

"I'm not fucking saying it is,"

I open my mouth, but close them, wiping the stray tears falling from my eyes. I didn't think I would be fucking crying in the middle of this conversation, but it hurts me worse than I ever intended. It's burning the back of my throat and killing me from the inside.