Free Angel of Redemption by J. A. Little Page B

interrupt.
    Emily
laughs. “ Come on, Dean. Give the woman a break.
She loves you. ”
    “ I know she does. I ’ ve never doubted that for a moment. ” I love my mother, I do, but I can ’ t stand the constant criticism. She doesn ’ t like the way I live. She doesn ’ t understand why I live in a shitty apartment when I could afford
a decent place in a nicer neighborhood. She thinks I ’ m too good for the women I choose to spend my free time
with. She refuses to acknowledge the things I ’ ve
done or the fact that my mistakes are entirely my own fault. She wants me to be
someone else. And I can ’ t. I don ’ t
deserve better.
    “ I ’ ll see you in a few days, Em. ”
    “ Yep. Night, Dean. ” I don ’ t bother saying good night to my brother. I ’ m still pissed at him for bringing up
Steph and the Wildes. As if I don ’ t think about that shit every single day. Fucker. Yes, I ’ m acting juvenile, but I don ’ t care.
     
    * * *
     
    My apartment is cold. Fucking freezing, actually. That ’ s the biggest problem with living in a
shithole. Nothing ever works. It ’ s two hundred degrees in the summer and twenty below in the
winter. There ’ s
no point in complaining because my landlord ’ s a dick.
    I
don ’ t
bother with the lights. I just head back to my bathroom, stripping my shirt off
as I go. I shower quickly, pull on a pair of flannel pants and climb into bed.
I don ’ t
even care that it ’ s
only seven o’clock. I’m exhausted.
    I love my sheets. They’re like silk. They are
among the few things I insisted on getting immediately after I was released.
Prison beds are not comfortable. The food was gross, but whatever; methods of
entertainment were all right; but the beds… The very first thing I did when I
got out was buy the softest bedding I could find, and I’ve never looked back.
The beds at Wyatt House are nice, but they aren’t quite as soft, so whenever I
come back to my apartment, I’m like a child with his favorite blanket. I’d buy
a set for the house, but then I’d probably never leave; and sometimes I really
need to leave. It’s so easy to get wrapped up in the boys—their lives,
their pasts, their futures. Most of the time I welcome the obsession. When I
focus on their lives, I don’t have to dwell on mine.
    I
wake abruptly at 5:00 a.m. Friday morning, shooting straight up like an arrow
in bed. It ’ s
sad when you wake up because you ’ re freaked out from not having
one of the nightmares you ’ re plagued with almost every fucking
night. I lie back on my pillows and close my eyes, hoping that I can get back
to sleep, but it doesn ’ t happen. Eventually I give up and get out of bed.
    After
starting the coffeepot, I try to find something for breakfast. I find bread,
but it ’ s
moldy. There are breakfast sausages in the fridge, but I ’ m not brave enough to eat them. I can ’ t remember when I bought them and that ’ s always a bad sign. Finally, I pour a
bowl of Fruit Loops. Unfortunately, when I sniff the milk, I figure out it ’ s fucking rancid, so I sit down and
eat my cereal dry. Whatever. I don ’ t care. Food ’ s food, right? I take a bite. Stale.
    I
guess I know what I ’ m doing today.
    The
grocery store sucks. I always either buy too much or not enough. Tracey taught
me to cook and I ’ m
pretty good at it, but I ’ ve never figured out how to shop for myself. I ’ m always halfway in-between one place
or the other, and I don ’ t always anticipate the amount of time I ’ m going to spend in either one. On top
of that, my apartment kitchen is old and barely functional, so I don ’ t really like cooking there.
    After
stocking up on food for the next three days, I spend the majority of the day in
front of the television. I could be doing any number of things, but I ’ m just enjoying the fact that I don ’ t have to do them. Eventually, I do
get up. My ass is numb and I feel like a loser. Putting on a pair of clean
jeans and a T-shirt,