(PROLOGUE)

I wish I had died.

When I open my eyes, I see a white room with a few paintings on the walls and a flat light above my head. I feel a slight pain in the side of my neck, and I don't have any recollection of what happened.

I look down at my hands and notice several bandages and more bruises. I run my palm up my side and wince as I try to sit up. When I look to my left, I notice my aunt through the glass speaking to a man draped in a white coat.

My aunt appears disturbed as she runs her fingers through her dark hair.

God, what did I do now?

I pull the sheet off my legs, clamber out of the bed, and fall to my knees. I scream as an excruciating pain travels up my legs causing the same man dressed in blue scrubs and a white coat to come rushing into the room, helping me back onto the bed.

"Please take it slow. Your body is still recovering," he says.

I look at him with a raised brow, "What are you talking about?"

He looks back at my aunt, who's now in the room, and she nods.

"You were in a crash. You were going at high speeds," he says.

I chuckle in disbelief, "Yeah, right."

"Now, please get me out of this insane asylum,"

My aunt looks at me with wide eyes and opens her mouth to speak, "Christian, this is not a joke. You could've died," She whispers the last words into my thoughts.

They repeat perpetually in my head, and I really want to say, maybe it would've been a good thing. But I don't because she might actually put me in an insane asylum.

"I knew I should've never let you buy that motorcycle," she mutters, which snaps me out of my reverie.

"I'm careful with my bike, I've always been careful,"

"Not when you decide you want to race someone," she says, "Because you're always irresponsible, trying to win, your instincts don't kick in when you go too far."

"I was racing someone and crashed?" I inquire, glancing at each of them. The blood drains from their faces, as the doctor strains to form sentences out of his words.

"If this is some wacky scheme to keep me away from racing, you're crazier than I imagined, and why can't I feel my fucking legs?" I exclaim.

"Your legs are just temporarily injured right now," he states, resting his hand on my shoulder in an attempt to calm me down.

My chest tightens and my breathing gets short; the room begins to spin, and I find myself unable to speak, despite my brain telling me what I should say.

"Christian, control your breathing," he mutters as he presses the stethoscope against my chest before I can register anything else. I blank out.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

It was tough for me to recover since I was constantly failing to do activities that I had never struggled with before.

I was embarrassed and ashamed of how difficult it was for me to walk. Perhaps the only reason I started pushing myself to walk again was because school was about to start.

I would rather die than go in there with a fucking wheelchair; the people there are more inquisitive than everyone else in town. They still look at me with pity and walk on eggshells around me, even after three years of my parents' passing.

I forcefully walk myself up to the two graves, then I take a seat on the grass.

'Clayton Westbrook, an incredible father and a beloved husband,"

'Amaya Westbrook, a great mother, wife and friend'

That was all I could come up with for my parents; after all, I was only thirteen years old. It's insufferable to have someone taken away from you unexpectedly, especially when it's your fault. I begged them to take me out for ice cream that night.

They were fatigued from work, but they had promised to take me, so they did. My parents were in the front when the car began to slide.

My father was driving, and I remember him yelling, 'I can't control it,' over and over again. I recall his hands frantically attempting to turn the steering wheel in the opposite direction in which the car was sliding.

My mother attempted to reassure me that everything was alright, but when the car slipped off the road, her final words were, 'Crawl to the other side, Christian.' I remember my small hands straining to take off the seatbelt and crawling behind her chair, and I remember the silence when the car rolled onto the roof.

"I'm really sorry," I sniffle between my words.

"I'm so so sorry," My voice falters as I shake my head, "It's all my fault,"

I hadn't been here in a long time since I wanted to forget about the tragedy, but with everything that happened, crashing and being reckless brought it back. All the sadness.

I was being reckless on purpose, while my parents didn't get to choose. Their lives were taken from them, they had no choice.

As I consider them both, I draw my knees up to my chest and swallow my tears down as best as I can. I feel like that  thirteen-year-old boy all over again.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

"Christian , have you been taking your meds?" Dr. Daniels asks.

I raise my head to look at her and give her a small nod. It was a lie. I never take those pills, how can a small pill heal anything?

I don't want to rely on a pill to make my shitty life better, I walk with a face of confidence shouldn't that be enough to stop others from worrying that I might just try to join my parents?

Dr. Daniels nods in response and ticks off something in her notebook, "And you start school soon correct?" she asks.

"Monday," I tell her.

A week from now, a week for me to get my act together and stop sulking around, a week to get my mask back on before someone notices that it has slipped.

"And how are you feeling about that?" she asks.

"Dr. Daniels, you have a cheating husband and two failures for children, one's a drug addict, and the other's a janitor, how would you take it if I asked you how you felt about that?"

Her brows knit together as she slams her book closed, her mouth falls open but no words come out.

Though she's my new therapist, I did my research. I've told my aunt and James I don't need a therapist yet they do not take it into consideration, so I have to find my own way to chase them even if she's just my holiday therapist.

"Just quit and I won't tell my aunt how much of a shit therapist you are," I say.

Without another word, she quickly packs her stuff and takes the nearest exit out of my grandfather's holiday home. I glance at the small bottle filled with pink pills and roll my eyes as I take them up.

Even though I don't take them I have to carry them with me so my aunt doesn't suspect anything. I shove them into my duffle bag with my clothes and take one last glance around the room.

Despite being here when I was younger everything seems so foreign to me, everything but the memories, the moments and the nostalgia of this place makes me sick and I can't wait to get back to SummerWood Creak.

⋅───⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰───⋅

𝗼𝗼. ⁞ 𝐀𝐒𝐇 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐒 !

Welcome to this chaotic universe, this book is going to be a hell of a rollercoaster. It should be noted now that my characters are not going to be perfect, decisions will be made that some may not agree with but I pray that you trust the process. Some scenes will be gut-wrenching and absolutely shatter your heart but would it be a good book if it didn't? I really hope you guys like this book, and I thank you for giving my book a chance. With that said, I hope you enjoyed the prologue. Till then. Chapter one coming soon. October first.

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