MONDAY, APRIL 1
6 days left

When I get home, Mom is at the sink peeling potatoes. I make my way to the cupboard and sort through the junk, trying to find a chocolate-chip granola bar.
"Taylor," she says, giving me a tiny wave.
I turn to face her, holding the empty box of granola bars. "Rob always takes the last one and he never throws the box away. It's annoying."
Mom smiles weakly. Her light brown hair is pulled back into a loose braid. When her hair is like that, exposing her wide forehead and angled cheekbones, she looks more like Kendall than normal. She puts down the potato peeler and dries her hands. "Can we talk?"
Looks like she's not going to answer me about the granola bars. I set the box down on the kitchen table. "Sure."
"DMC called today. Mr. Damon was wondering where you were. You missed a shift on Saturday and you were supposed to work today, too?" She sounds so uncertain, like she's afraid to reprimand me.
She's right, though. I have been blowing off work. I guess I figured that if I was going to die, it wasn't so important to hold on to my job. Money is worthless to a dead person. But the thing is, even if I don't jump from Crestville Pointe, I'm pretty sure I never want to work at DMC again.
"I'm quitting my job," I say.
"What?" she says in a calm and measured voice.
"You can yell at me," I say. "I'm not him, you know? I may be like him, but I don't have to turn out the same way." I feel a heaviness building behind my eyes. I do my best to blink away the tears.
My mom recoils like I've just slapped her. She brings her hand to her cheek. "Oh, Taylor. Oh, sweetie." She reaches out for me.
I let her hug me, but I don't hug back. I collapse against her and feel her stiffen as she holds my body's weight.
She takes my hand and leads me to her bedroom. I haven't been in this room since I moved in. It's the master bedroom of the house, but that isn't saying much. It's not that much bigger than the room Kendall and I share. I notice a few of Steve's dirty shirts on the floor in the corner, but besides that, it looks like Mom works hard to keep this space clean. It's her one sanctuary away from the messy storm that is the rest of the house.
We take a seat on her bed. My palms press against the floral comforter. I stare down at it. The threads are fraying, making the roses look like they're fuzzy and bleeding. I pick at one of the loose strands.
She pulls away from me so she can look me in the eye. "Taylor," she says, "you're nothing like him."
I can feel my heart pounding and it feels so heavy and big and I wonder if it's the only thing the black slug has left me. Like the rest of my insides are empty, and all that's left is my lonely, beating heart. "But I am like him."
She touches my hand lightly. "What do you mean?"
My breathing is shaky and I take a few gulps to try to steady myself. "I'm sad, Mom. I'm sad all the time. And I think he was, too."
"Oh, sweetie," she says in a heavy voice. I finally look up at her and see that her eyes are misty and bloodshot. "You should have told me. Why didn't you come to me sooner?"
I hang my head, pressing my chin to my chest. "I was scared—" My voice breaks and I taste the salty tears building in my throat. "I was terrified you'd send me away. Or worse, that I'd cause more problems for you. You don't deserve more problems."
Mom pulls me close to her again. We rock back and forth in silence. She lets go of me and wipes her face. "I don't know how to explain this, Taylor, but I think I've never tried to talk with you about all of this because I was terrified of saying the wrong thing." She pauses for a moment and her lips twitch like she's about to say something, but she doesn't.
"Mom?"
She sighs. "I guess I still don't know what I want to say. Or what I should say. You know, when you were younger, I used to see you standing by yourself under the tree in the front yard of the elementary school wearing that blue windbreaker jacket your dad had bought you. The one with little yellow ducks all over it. Remember?"
I do remember. She continues, "I would be there to pick up Kendall and I knew that your father was coming to get you, but I could never shake the feeling that there was something I should do for you. You looked so lonely, even then. I wanted to get out of the car and hug you, talk to you, but I never did. And then when everything with your father happened, I let my fear overwhelm me even more. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've been stronger for you."
She reaches for my hands, but I move away from her grasp. Tears dribble down my cheek and I blot them with the sleeve of my shirt. I clear my throat. "I want to visit Dad."
She doesn't say anything. She stares at the floor.
"Mom, I really want to see him. I think it would help me."
"He's not in prison anymore," she says slowly, reaching for my hand. This time I let her grab it. She gives it a squeeze. "They moved him to a psychiatric hospital."
"I know."
She jerks her head up. "What?"
"I tried to visit him at McGreavy and they told me he'd been moved. And I need you to go with me to be allowed to visit him at Saint Anne's."
She brings her hand to her lips and makes a fist, lightly biting on her knuckles.
"So will you take me?" I press.
She takes a deep breath and slowly reaches over and runs her hand through the back of my hair, the way I've seen her do to Kendall and thought she'd never do to me again. "I'm not sure that's the best idea, but I'll look into it and see what we can arrange."
"Promise?"
She grabs my hands. "Promise. But I'm also going to need you to do something for me."
"What?"
Our hands are locked together in a tight grip and she gives them a squeeze. "Talk to me about your sadness, Taylor. Do you need to see someone?"
I look away from her. "I don't know."
For as long as I can remember, I've been terrified of telling anyone about my sadness because I thought for sure they'd see it as proof that I had inherited my father's insanity. But now, I realize that I'll never be able to change what my dad did or the fact I wasn't there that afternoon to try to stop him. Every day, I will wake up and he'll still be responsible for the death of Dean.
And maybe the black slug will always live inside of me. Maybe I'll always have bad days where the heaviness seems unbearable. But as cheesy as it sounds, maybe the good days will make it worth getting through the bad ones.
For too long, I've made my past my future, afraid to imagine anything else. And I acted like that—static—afraid of my own kinetic energy. Maybe it's time to start imagining, maybe it's time to be in motion. Maybe it's time for me to fight back against the sadness inside of me.
I wonder if it's possible to make Harry understand that. Make him see that my change of heart isn't about flaking out; it's about fighting back. I'm going to have to find the courage to finally be honest with him.
"Can I think about it?" I finally say.
"Sure," she says. "But even if you don't talk to a professional right away, you have to promise to keep talking to me. You can't keep all of this hidden inside of you, Taylor. Not anymore."
"I know," I say, and lean into her again. I breathe in her floral perfume and it reminds me of when I was younger, before the heaviness inside me became so overwhelming, so unbearable.

I wonder if that's how darkness wins, by convincing us to trap it inside ourselves, instead of emptying it out.
I don't want it to win.

Author's Note :

This story is on 880 in fanfiction and I'm so happy. Ily guys.

-CK