Page 30 of Down Shift (Driven 8)
And it’s all because of the goddamn box.
The one delivered to my house out of the blue weeks ago that stole the peace I’d found years ago. The one I made the mistake of opening. The words on the first packet of paper I picked up knocked me flat on my ass. Causing me to question everything I’ve ever known. About myself. My memories. And the fact that others in my life knew the truth when I didn’t.
That fucking packet of paper: a copy of my mom’s autopsy report. The truths it held shocked the shit out of me. Brought memories and images that I’d repressed as a child to come back with a vengeance and fuck me up. Those truths had been much too harsh for a seven-year-old boy to accept. I’d moved forward never knowing there were blank spots in my memory that needed to be filled: my hands on the scissors and the final sound she made when I pulled on them.
Does it really matter all this time later? Yes, because if I couldn’t remember something so goddamn significant, what else am I not remembering? What else has been kept from me?
Fucking ghosts I thought were dead and buried are now back with a vengeance.
That’s why I shoved the autopsy report in the box, taped the flaps of cardboard back up—to try to pretend like the life I’ve been living isn’t built on a lie.
Like the memories aren’t bullshit.
And now that box sits in the corner over there and taunts me. Makes me wonder if the rest of the stuff in there is just as jarring as the first thing I saw.
Curiosity—it’s more dangerous than fear.
It’s the reason why I’m here.
And while I’d like to be angry at Colton for firing me and forcing me away from the track, this isn’t on him. Not in the least. I’m man enough to admit that.
To myself anyway.
Distance has allowed me to see that. The step back Colton forced me to take, the time to reflect with a clear head without the distractions I was drowning myself in—alcohol, women, adrenaline—allowed me to realize the truth.
And now I’m left not only to deal with the ticking time bomb of a box in the corner, but to figure out how to right the wrong choices I made.
Hell yes, I could take the easy way out—torch the box in a bonfire and choke on my pride and call Colton to apologize. Stifle the curiosity and take back the brutal words I said when I was pissed at the fucking world and just needed an out. Anger is the one emotion that makes your mouth work faster than your mind, and you better bet your ass my mouth was running.
But that wouldn’t solve shit. I’d still be fucked in the head and apologies are just a Band-Aid placed on an open wound when you cut someone as deeply as I cut Colton.
I know from experience—they don’t always stop the bleeding.
“And that’s why you’re here, Donavan,” I mutter to myself as I flop back on the bed, the sight of the ceiling much better for my psyche than the taunting cardboard box. The one I need to man up and open. Prove that without the distractions, I can deal with it. That its contents won’t fuck me up any more than I already am.
Besides, I can’t chase
the ghosts away for good if I don’t face them head-on.
And yet my first week in PineRidge is over and it still sits there. Unopened. Untouched. The question is, what else is in there? My curiosity calls for me to open it. My mental stability tells me to waste a whole roll of duct tape on it and seal it off forever.
Fucking Christ. I’ve dealt with this shit already. Dealt with it as a kid by crawling inside my own mind and not speaking for months. Dealt with it through endless hours of therapy and countless nights curled up in a ball, afraid to go to the bathroom for fear of what I might find again. Leading to a wet bed and a fucked-up head.
And then when my dad did come back for me, I had to deal with the chaos he brought with him again. The gun he held. Rylee, my counselor back then, protecting me at all costs. The taste of fear in my mouth. The tiny bit of desire for him to win so maybe I would die and could see my mom again. Then the gunshot. More blood again. A policeman standing over his body.
And then the freedom in knowing he could never come for me again. The fear that ended.
So yeah, I dealt with it all right. Kind of don’t have a choice when you’re eight and all alone in this big, bad world.
Who am I kidding? I’m still dealing with it every day. And if the first thing I pulled from the box messed me up so much I was willing to throw everything important to me away, what happens when I open it again and discover more things I can’t cope with?
But that’s the point, dumbass. To come here, deal with my shit, and prove to myself I’m the man I know I am—the man that Colton helped make me. Only then can I go back home and redeem myself. To my adoptive parents, to my crew, to the fans.
“Fuck, this is fucked,” I groan as I bring a forearm to cover my eyes when I hear the front door slam. Followed by the pad of footsteps. A giggle that throws me. Then the squeak of that damn bathroom door. And the whole reason I went and slept on Smitty’s boat—the sleepless nights with a beer in hand watching the phosphorus light up the water and the tinkering with mechanical shit I have no business tinkering with—to get some space and perspective on why I’m here in the first place—just flew out the damn window.
Getty.
The old pipes in the house creak. The telltale sound that she’s taking a shower. And a shower means she’s naked. Goddamn, if the image of her standing in the hallway naked except for those mismatching socks that first night we met doesn’t come to mind. Not like it’s gone very far from my thoughts to begin with.
