Playing His Own Games | ✔︎

chapter sixteen | déjà vu

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"I smoke to numb the pain and drink to numb my mind."
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Mason

PANIC TRILLS THROUGH me as I open the door to find Jared, completely plastered, hanging onto two social workers arms.

I blink, bringing my guard up. My voice drips with hostility, masking the terror rising inside of me. "Um...hi?"

"We were just driving past and saw this champ stumbling around in the dark," the red-haired woman tells me with a wide smile that I find almost condescending. "Decided to drop him back home."

"Thanks," I reply cooly, grabbing my dumb stepbrothers arm to stop him from falling over as he stumbles to get through the front door. I have enough shit to deal with without Social Services up my arse. "I'll make sure he stays inside."

"Actually," the man says, stepping into the light of the front door, a faint smile lingering on his lips, "we were wondering if we could have a word with your father?"

I want to slam both the door and my fist in these social workers faces. Can't they take the hint I'm not in the mood? "Is that really necessary?" I ask through gritted teeth.

"You really don't recognise me, Mason?" the man muses. "We met four years ago. I'm Sawyer, remember? Sawyer Jones?"

I stiffen, eyes widening as I take in his curly dark hair and green eyes. It feels as though I've been punched in the stomach. "Oh, I remember you," I say dryly.

That night and the morning that followed will be forever printed into my mind. Every second etched inside my skull, never to be forgotten.

My father was pacing the kitchen, clenching and unclenching his fists, his slippers slapping against the white tile. I was thirteen, slumped over the kitchen bench, my chin balanced on my upraised arms, and I reeked of beer. My head was pounding and it felt like it weighed a ton of bricks. My eyes swivelled around the kitchen, struggling to focus on the blur of colour that danced behind my eyelids.

I tried to decipher the numbers on the clock but it was pointless. All I knew was that it was late enough for my father to answer the front door after four tries of the doorbell.

"You're drunk." It was a statement, not a question, but I replied anyway.

"You're a fucking dick." The words were slurred but judging by my father enraged expression, he understood them loud and clear.

My euphoria faded as he gripped my arm so tightly the skin pulsed. He brought his face inches from my own, his eyes blazing with raw fury. "Clean your mouth out, you insolent little shit."

My eyelids began to droop over as I mumbled out, "Screw you."

He grabbed the collar of my leather jacket and yanked me through the house and into the backyard. Frozen air hit my face and I cringed away from the cold. My father continued to drag me around to the side of the house, hissing obscenities underneath his breath.

Bile rose in the back of my throat but I didn't have time to warn him before I threw up all over the pavers, vomit splattering against the side fence and all over my his shoes.