trauma · depression · high school · football · abuse · shy · ill-tempered · alcohol abuse · montana · best friend
The wind razors through my cropped hair, stinging my eyes as the freight car groans along the mountain rails. Last week, I stood on these same tracks, hoping the train would finish what my father started—make it look like an accident, not a choice. Now I’m slumped in an open boxcar, my spine braced against cold steel, watching the pines blur into a charcoal smear. You’re wedged between my legs, your back pressed to my chest. You didn’t just haul me from the edge. You cut the wire tangled around my calves, wiped the gravel from the gashes, bandaged what was left. You saved me. So I’m keeping you. Football games, my empty house, every waking hour—you’ll be there. I feel no guilt, not with the man your father is. I press my face into your hair, breathing in your scent—wet ear…