Not My Hero - Michelle Heard Page 0,2

reach the corner desk. Taking the seat, I notice a scrap of paper, and I shove it aside. I pull the wet fabric away from my chest, hoping it will dry quickly.

I’m not good at math, and luckily Mr. Matthews doesn’t pay much attention to us while he drones on. I open my art book, and I’m just about to continue with my sketch when my eyes are drawn to the scrap of paper.

Someone from the previous class probably left it here. Reaching for it, I fold it open.

‘Remember, no one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’ – Eleanor Roosevelt.

The quote hits like a ten-ton train, and it derails my emotions.

Yeah? Eleanor probably never had to deal with Sully or Michael, who love to torture me every chance they get.

She never had to deal with my mother, who continually reminds me I’m nothing more than an unfortunate by-product of one alcohol-induced night between her and some man. A stranger whose name she didn’t even bother to get.

At least, that’s one way of looking at it.

My opinion? That my mother had me because she needed someone to torture, so she could feel better about her own life that’s nothing short of disastrous.

Inferior? That’s not how I feel.

I just feel alone and unwanted. All my life, I’ve been judged for the way my mother behaves. She’s a cruel woman who has a high opinion of herself. She blames the world and me for her problems. My grandparents practically exiled her to this town because she’s unhinged and harmful to their public image. They also refuse to acknowledge my existence.

Letting out a sigh, I neatly fold the scrap of paper and tuck it into my bag.

COLTON

She read the quote. I watch her shove the paper into her bag, and then she continues to draw.

There’s a frustrated pang in my chest. I was hoping the quote would mean something to her. I don’t know, maybe enlighten her the same way it did me. But it doesn’t look like the words meant anything to her.

Something about her reminds me of Brady. Just like my brother, she looks timid and scared of her own shadow.

Brady.

I shut my eyes against the grief that shudders through me. It’s not as intense anymore. Three months have passed since Brady shot himself, but there are moments when it feels like it just happened. I’ll suddenly smell the blood. I’ll see his vacant eyes.

If I allow myself to think of everything that happened, I’ll break. It feels like all it will take for me to lose my mind is one small shove.

Before Brady died, life was a constant battle. I had to fight our father because my mom and Brady wouldn’t. They cowered whenever Dad flew off the rails. But I couldn’t. It’s like his anger triggered something inside me to keep fighting. To keep forging ahead because retreating would mean that he’d turn his rage toward them.

That night, I backed off and left because it felt like I would kill our father if I stayed at home a second longer. The one night I retreated cost me my brother’s life.

If I could turn back time, I’d stay and kill our father if it meant Brady would still be here. I’d spend the rest of my life behind bars so my brother could live.

But I retreated.

I left Brady to face that monster.

The rumors are right. I did kill my brother.

Opening my eyes, I try to focus on the book I’m reading. At first, I read to escape, but now it’s so much more. My father is nothing but an abusive asshole, and my mother checked out of reality the day we buried Brady.

I can’t give up like Brady did. I just don’t have it in me. I can’t lose my shit like my mother did because then there won’t be anyone to look after her. And truthfully, I’d rather die a thousand deaths before I become anything like my father.

Into Thin Air by Jon Krakauer taught me how to survive when staring death in the face. The book changed my life.

Since then, I’ve been devouring books that show the unbreakable spirit of those who have survived the unthinkable.

Where my parents have failed to teach me anything of value, books have become my guide, my perseverance, my moral compass.

The teacher begins with class, and I close my book, so I can pay attention because I sure as hell don’t want to fail my senior year again.

“Psst…”

I let out a slow