My dad had lived. He was in the hospital for three days. They gave him emergency bypass surgery, and for the rest of his days he would have a pacemaker.

When he first got home, we made zero mention of that day. Things were back to how they were when I was first adopted. There was no yelling, no fighting. I was on my best behavior, as was my mom.

Several times I tried to apologize to my mother. However, any time we were alone, she avoided me. I wasn't about to bust into the bathroom with her, the only place she couldn't run away from me, so after a point I gave up. Even so, occasionally she would quietly hiss at me, "Don't start up," like she didn't trust me to keep my mouth shut.

My dislike for her was slowly morphing into hatred.

Then the bills started pouring in. Retrospectively it was stupid for me to do so, but I would lay awake at night, listening to their financial discussions after they thought I was fast asleep. I could only catch bits and pieces, straining to hear their hushed voices.

All their savings had been pumped into my adoption. Even before my father's heart attack, something had happened at his job which required pay cuts for the employees (information they withheld from me entirely). We, apparently, were going through money quicker than he was making it.

There was no emergency fund. My father wasn't signed up for temporary disability. He quickly chewed through all of his sick time and paid time off while he recovered.

Recovery wasn't going well. His poor health caused him to have several setbacks. At one point he developed a blood clot and had to go back to the ER. I kept hearing in the midnight hours how expensive the ambulance had been when he had his heart attack. How much the surgery cost. How much just being in a room at the hospital cost.

My mother was furious that he didn't look for another job. Every time it was brought up, he made excuses. "I've been there too long to give up now." "They'll bump my pay back up when they're able." "Do you honestly think I'm well enough to go through the stress of finding a new job? Are you trying to give me another heart attack?"  She stopped fighting him on it after a night where I fell asleep to the sounds of him pushing her around as she cried.

With every word I eavesdropped on, it just made me wish I had never been born.

We prolonged the inevitable as long as possible. We, apparently, had stopped paying bills at some point. Luckily spring was approaching, so when the gas was turned off it wasn't a big deal; wearing extra layers in the house and using more blankets at night became the norm. It was more of a problem when they shut off the water. Last to go was the electricity.

I had started spending more and more time with Daryl. His parents must have known what was going on. They never questioned why I rarely ate dinner at home. They never refused me a shower. I was thankful we could at least take our clothes to the laundromat, but even that was saved until we had nothing left to wear and we had to wash them.

Then, in the last few weeks of school, it happened. We had been missing our mortgage. So, the house was foreclosed on. As we began to sell off things for money to get an apartment, it felt surreal. My dad still couldn't work. He finally put his pride aside and we went on state aid, but by that point it was too late.

I was told that all we could afford was a trailer on the other side of town. It was a startling downgrade in square footage, so we ended up having to sell even more possessions. By the time we moved, all my worldly possessions were my clothes, my books and magazines, and my guitar. The family computer would be moved into my bedroom so I could do my homework. Plus, who was I kidding—there wasn't any room for the desk to fit anywhere else. For a time I didn't even have a cellphone.

I had never felt more despondent than first day in the trailer. It was night, and I had finished unpacking my meager belongings. I tried to turn on the main light of my room, but of course with my luck there was a loud pop as the incandescent bulb burned out. So I stood in the dark, laughing, my arms wrapped around myself. It was a long time before I realized that I was crying as well.

The next day I had to go to school. The only person who knew my troubles was Daryl. Even then, he only knew some of it. No one knew about my parents fighting. No one knew about my father getting handsy with my mom and I.

"Is it as bad as you were afraid of?" Daryl had asked me in a conspiratorial way.

It was recess. We had, years ago, realized that we could hide away in the alcove of an emergency door. We usually snuck back there, away from the nuns and kids, to either talk about my woes or to smoke. Honestly, it was usually both.

"Worse," I had replied, taking a quick drag from my cigarette hidden in my cupped hand.

Daryl's eyes had gone wide. "How?"

I explained to him how small it was. I told him how little things I owned now. Before I knew it, the past two years came tumbling out of my mouth—all of it. And by the end of it, the only thing that kept me from crying was embarrassment.

"Orion!" Daryl had gasped, looking horrified. "You have to tell someone!"

I had laughed bitterly. "Why? So I can go into protective services? So I can go back to the foster house? Thanks, I'll pass."

"It's got to be better than all that!"

"What does it matter?" I had asked him angrily. The loudness of my words was drowned out by the laughing and playing of children. "I'm stuck, Daryl! I don't wanna be shuffled around the system! I don't wanna be stuck in this stupid, shitty town for the rest of my days! But guess what, Daryl!"

He was looking at me, a strange mixture of hurt, worry, and crestfallen.

I had laughed bitterly, glaring. "That's the fate our precious God has handed me. I'm a fucking kid, Daryl. What am I supposed to do?"

My best friend looked pained. His brow was furrowed, lips pursed tightly. I didn't want his pity, and it made me angry at him. But it wasn't really at him.

"Why the fuck do you care, anyway?" I spat.

He blinked a moment. When he spoke, I could barely hear him.

"Because you deserve so much better, Orion."

Without thinking, I did about the stupidest thing I could have done. I grabbed the tie of Daryl's uniform, pulled him close, and kissed him. At the time I thought it could have gone worse. For a second I could have swore he leaned in (it wasn't until I was an adult did I find out he probably had). Then he merely shoved me off and literally ran away.

Once my brain crashed into the reality of what I had done, I was surprised he hadn't punched me (especially given my home life). My temporary relief was blindsided by utter panic. My stomach gave a lurch, and I clamped my hand over my mouth. Not even bothering to collect our cigarettes from the ground, I ran as fast as I could up to one of the nuns.

"I'm gonna puke," I said under my hand, gagging again.

Looking alarmed, she pointed at the door, silently granting me permission to go back inside. I threw myself at the door as fast as my feet could propel me. Bursting into the school, I was scolded several times over by nuns telling me not to run. I ignored them.

Instead of going to the nurses office, I ran to the bathroom. I was lucky when no one was in there. Locking the stall door, I got down on my knees and became noisily ill into the toilet. I know I spent enough time in there for the bell to ring, signaling recess was over. Overall though I didn't know how much time I had spent in that bathroom stall, out of my mind with panic.

Still shaking, I flushed and got to my feet. The mirror greeted me as soon as I opened the creaky metal door. I looked like shit. Wiping my eyes on the sleeve of my coat, I went to the sink and washed my hands quickly. My eyes flicked up the wall to see how much time I had.

However, instead of to the clock face, my sore eyes traveled upward still. Perched above the round, archaic, analog clock was a crucifix. It seemed to me that Jesus was frowning down at me, his pain-filled eyes twisted into a glare overflowing with retribution.

He had passed his judgment.

I spun around and locked myself back into the stall, praying some more to the toilet God.