The Struggle (The Things We Can't Change Book 2) Read Free

basically a vegetable, I would kill him myself. Kill him dead, the same way he did to my sister. Maybe then I would finally get peace from my own demons. Then again, I know deep down that killing Tony won’t bring Cindy back. Nothing ever will. All I can do is try to stop feeling , try to stop missing her, thinking about her, wishing she was back.
    The feelings are all roiling around inside me, crashing and careening through my chest, invading my heart and brain, and I’m gasping for air by the time I’ve gone almost three miles and am at the bridge near Olentangy River Road. I stop, mouth wide open as I suck in the heavy, humid air. It’s already so sticky out I may as well quench my thirst this way, with all the water hanging around in the pre-dawn gloom. I bend over and place my hands on my knees, waiting until I have control of my breathing and my hands are no longer shaking.
    The bridge before me is covered in graffiti, most of it mine, which was all done in the past month, mostly in the early morning. This is a pretty dead zone for cops at this time of day, I’ve discovered, and in the month and a half since Cindy’s death, I’ve found myself here five mornings out of seven, struggling to get everything out of me.
    I dig in the shallow dirt at the base of the bushes near the bridge and finally unearth the cans of spray paint I’ve left there. I can’t keep them at the house because I know my dad will pitch a fit if he finds them. The handful of times we have interacted, it’s deteriorated into a yelling argument where one of us storms out of the house, and I’m not trying to push my luck with that.
    I take another quick look around, but the streets are dead, not a soul around, and so I lift up the can of spray paint and get the feelings out the only way I know how. I put it all into the painting; my grief over losing Cindy, the tears I haven’t been able to shed, my concern for Evie, rage at my dad, and most of all, the guilt that I failed to save my sister, and the underlying anger that Evie and Tony survived, and Cindy did not.
     
     
    As dawn breaks, I run back to the apartment, and even though I rush my shower and just throw on the first shirt and pair of jeans I find on the floor, I’m running late for school. It doesn’t really matter; not only is it our last day, but my interest in school the past month has been nil. It’s hard to pay attention when everyone is staring at you, whispering about you, and I’ve begun to wonder if I should even return for my senior year. If school hadn’t always come so easily to me and I hadn’t had such good grades all year, I would be a lot worse off now since I haven’t done a bit of homework since Cindy died.
    I stroll into the school building just as the bell for first period rings, but hearing it doesn’t make me walk any faster. I just continue to walk leisurely down the hallway, passing the front offices. As I glance inside them, my eyes are immediately drawn to a small, short figure with long dark hair, almost down to her waist. She turns slightly so I see the curve of a face, and I know without a doubt that it’s Evie Parker.
    Something inside me clenches, anger battling with some insane kind of… longing. I find myself torn between the urge to go up to Evie, to talk to her and see if she’s all right, and the urge to yell and scream and rage at her, even though for the most part, she is just as much a victim in this as Cindy was.
    Evie looks up right then and our eyes meet. Hers widen in surprise, and for a long moment we both stand stock still, unsure. The rage ends up winning, and I turn away from her abruptly, continuing on down the hallway to my class.
    She wasn’t a victim, I tell myself furiously. If she’d just told someone about Tony, I wouldn’t have been involved. Things would have happened differently, and Cindy would still be alive. Remember that, Zeke.
    I stride away down the hall and don’t look back.
     
     
    By lunch my emotions