DAD HAD ORDERED ME to my room. I hadn’t wanted to go.
Nate had ordered me to shower. I’d wanted to tell him to shove it.
My entire being hummed to rebel, my voice to scream, my legs to run, and my hands had itched to destroy.
The table that Dad always tried to keep dead centre in the kitchen, with all its intricate scratches and grooves, each one of them a memory etched into a fabric of the house—I’d wanted to smash it up.
The deviant trees that had somehow found their way into the back garden, no doubt spawned from wayward seeds carried in on the breeze—I’d wanted to hack their f*****g trunks to pieces, furious with them for getting away without conformity when that option shrank from me.
My truck. The one item I could have done whatever-the-hell I wanted to without consequences, Eth
