The Rush by Jenna (a book to read txt) 📕

respect for in my seventeen years on the planet.
“Never dream of it, sir,” I said, saluting him before resting my head back down on the top of my desk. I could tell he was rolling his eyes, but I didn’t care. I was stuck babysitting the new kid. Yay.
History with Mr. Ascher was actually interesting. The guy was passionate about a bunch of old dead guys who wore powdered wigs and frilly coats. I had given him shit about it in detention so many times, he threatened to make me go to gym class.
Stoners and gym class don’t mix.
But all together, he was a cool guy.
I couldn’t say the same about Emmaline Nolen, who I had never even had a conversation with before then.
“Alright, kiddies, who’s ready to read about a bunch of dead people,” Mr. Ascher asked, the class groaning as he began passing out books.

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I slammed the door, the house shaking in protest. I threw my book bag on the floor and exhaled loudly. The silence only lasted for about a second and a half before the yelling started.
“What the hell is this, Reed,” my dad cried as he walked down the stairs. His words rung in my ears and I thought back to what I did that morning that might have set him off.
His eyes were enraging and for a moment I considered yelling back.
“What,” I shrugged, looking around the kitchen. Nothing seemed out of place.
His face turned an alarming shade of red and he grabbed onto my arm with an iron grip. I knew there would be a mark by tomorrow. He lead me into the dim hallway and I stopped.
The glass was shattered and my mother’s face was crinkled by the weight of the broken glass and wooden frame. I swallowed and stared at the worn smile I passed everyday in the hallway. The place where the picture used to hang was replaced by a bent nail sticking out of the wall.
“Dad,” I said quietly. My voice cracked and I cursed emotions for a moment. I looked over to see his eyes looking lost. They were a watery blue that made me think he was going to cry. Instead, his fist connected with my jaw.
I stumbled backwards, slightly stunned.
Of course, the first hit was stunning. His fists were shaking as he grabbed hold of my shirt, throwing me against the wall. Hitting the drywall with a thud, I slumped to the floor.
“Pick it up,” he cried. His eyes were bulging maniacally and his face was red. His meaty hands ran through his dark hair and over his tired face.
I licked my bottom lip and tasted blood.
“Pick it up,” he cried again, pointing the mess. His eyes were pleading, begging me to pick up the pieces. I swallowed and got on my hands and knees.
The glass stung as I picked it up in fistfuls. I grabbed the wood by the nails and didn’t mind the burn as splinters dug into my skin. I picked it up and watched the blood seep from my palms.
My dad covered his eyes and shook. I couldn’t tell if he was crying, laughing, or angry, so I picked myself up and threw away the bloody glass.
Truth be told, I liked the pain. I liked that anchor to reality.
Maybe that what I need to do, I decided. Cut, instead of huffing Clorox and buzzing out. But the thing was, there was no rush with pain. The rush. That’s what was the best part.
The rush made me feel weightless. It made everything disappear to a point where nothing really mattered anymore. And maybe that’s because nothing really does.
When you’re thirty and single, no one’s going to applaud for being homecoming queen back in eighty-five. No one’s going to care your first kiss was the kid you had been ‘crushing on’ since second grade, back when the opposite sex was gross. No one will give a shit when you brag that your first time was on a trampoline, or that you aced the math quiz back in third grade.
No one cared.

Imprint

Publication Date: 09-08-2012

All Rights Reserved

Dedication:
To Kyle, My RoCkStAr <3