Free Unforgivable by Amy Reed Page A

me.
    â€œMarcus,” she says through the clouds. “Come on. Get dressed. We have to go.”
    â€œWhy?” I mumble.
    â€œDavid was in an accident.” Her voice breaks. My eyes burst open and let in way too much light. “He’s in the hospital. We have to go.”
    When we get to the hospital, David is barely awake. He got lucky with just a broken rib and a few stitches. He stares out at me through the haze of painkillers and tries to smile. Something is missing behind his eyes. But his face is relaxed, serene. He looks the calmest I’ve seen him in years.
    â€œLittle brother,” he mumbles. “Your turn.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about? My turn for what?”
    But he is gone, sucked into oblivion. And somewhere, deep down, I know he’s never coming back.
    I wanted to go with him tonight. I was supposed to be with him.
    I am in the kitchen, searching for food. Mom hasn’t gone grocery shopping in days. She hasn’t bothered to pay someone else to do it for her. There is one frostbitten egg roll in the freezer. I throw it in the microwave. I listen to the soft buzz as it cooks. I bet Davidcould explain the science about how exactly microwaves work if he wasn’t so busy fighting with Dad.
    The house is big and the walls are thick, but I can still hear them screaming at each other. I don’t know what the fight is about this time. They all melt into each other. Maybe it’s the DUI. Or the getting caught with cocaine at school. Or the possibility of Yale taking back his acceptance. Or getting that girl pregnant and asking Dad for money for the abortion. The fight could be about anything and everything David does these days, his senior year of high school, when his life was supposed to look so different.
    â€œWhat the hell were you thinking?” Dad screams.
    â€œWhy is my life any of your business?” David screams back.
    â€œYou call this a life?”
    Over and over, around and around, these demands and questions that neither ever answers.
    I wrap the egg roll in a paper towel and walk out of the kitchen. Mom is sitting in her favorite chair in the living room, a book in one hand, a giant glass of wine in the other. Her face is pointed in the direction of the book, but she’s not actually reading. Her eyes are glazed over, focused on nothing.
    â€œMom,” I say. She says nothing. She doesn’t move. “Mom!” I say again, louder. Her eyelids flicker, she blinks, and she’s back, but just barely.
    â€œYeah, honey?” she says distractedly, like she expects me to ask her a question about the laundry.
    â€œIs Dad really going to kick David out this time?”
    She shrugs. Her eyes are pointed somewhere on the carpet. Shetakes a sip of her wine, and it leaves a sloppy red stain around her mouth, like a kid slurping Kool-Aid.
    â€œDo something!” I demand. “You can’t let this happen. You can’t give up.” But I know, as soon as it comes out of my mouth, that it isn’t true. I know that’s exactly what she’s done. I know she did it a long time ago.
    â€œDo what, Marcus?” she says, finally managing to look me in the eyes. She’s folded over herself, as if she can no longer find the motivation to stay upright. “What can I do?”
    â€œDo something,” I say. “Do anything.”Anything is better than nothing.
    But she shakes her head and takes another sip of wine. She looks at her book and sinks farther into the chair.

here.
    IF GOD EXISTS, I’M PRETTY SURE HE’S LAUGHING HIS ASS off right now. He’s sitting up there in his cloud recliner with a beer in his hand, elbowing his angel friend and congratulating himself about the epic joke he’s playing on me. “What a chump!” they’re saying.
    It’s one hour after being told by my girlfriend’s sister that she’s in rehab and never wants to see me again, one day after finding