What is Real by Karen Rivers Read Free Book Online Page B

included.
    Feral was kind of an asshole that way. Entitled prick. Doesn’t mean I didn’t love him, just means I could see what he was like.
    I used to think that it was like living in a fish tank with everyone down below staring up into our windows, watching us swim from room to room, blowing bubbles as we went. But by the time I moved out, it was still like that, only I’d forgotten how to breathe underwater and every inhalation was like drowning.
    Every time I think about Feral, I lie. I am lying right now.
    I am lying. I am a liar.
    I have a tattoo on the inside of my arm. It was my idea. It wasn’t even an idea. It was a thing that I did. I thought it was cool. I am the one.
    It was me.
    I drowned, but Feral died.
    See, I could do heroin for fun, once or twice. It didn’t matter. He couldn’t. Some people are like that. From the very first time, it owned him, creeping through his veins like mercury, turning him into a robot who existed only for more.
    And Feral, he was gone.
    And I was “home.” But it wasn’t my home.
    And Vancouver wasn’t my home.
    The truth was, I was only “home” when I was behind my camera. And without it, I was too light, like any minute I might just float up into the sky and never come down. I saw the whole world through that lens; it kept me just far enough away to be safe. And now that it was gone, it was like looking at everything through binoculars. The world was too big and there was too much of it.
    It didn’t help that this shitty town felt like a sweater I’d outgrown years ago that I was trying to pull back on and it wasn’t working. It itched and I don’t think it was really ever my sweater, ever. I never would have chosen it.
    In March, I lost Feral.
    In June, my dad jumped.
    In September, I began disappearing.
    In December, I moved back and started over. As someone else. Another Dex. If I still had the camera, I’d be filming “The Evolution of Dex Pratt.” Or “The Rebirth.” Only, that sounds good, and there was nothing good about this.
    And then there was the house. My dad thought it was genius . I couldn’t argue with him even though there were lots of good, decent arguments. I just didn’t have any left. And I wanted some drugs, something, anything to shut out all the noise. And that was the fucking irony because I wanted and I wanted and I wanted, but I didn’t mean…
    You know how they say, “Be careful what you wish for?” Yeah, it was like that.
    Anyway, even broken, my dad was not someone you argued with.
    Even in the pictures in the ad, the house looked like the kind of house where you end up. Not one that you choose. It was not the kind of house where the Dad that I thought I knew would ever live. Where were the polished wood floors and the fucking stainless steel appliances? Where was all the stuff ? Soaker tubs and a front lawn? A deck?
    â€œIt has a perfect basement,” he said. “Think about it. It’s on a working farm so no one will question the power use, and it has a huge basement. It’s perfect.”
    This was the New, Improved Dad™.
    The New, Improved Dad™ had had it. He ’d had enough lawyering, he said, for ten lifetimes. The dealers made the money and ran, and he made shit and stayed. And now he was going to rake it in. He knew people. He knew everyone. He knew loopholes. It was like his whole life had been building up to this decision and he was going to fucking go for it whether or not it cost him everything. Because he had nothing left to lose.
    And now it was his turn . And, oh, by the way, son, all that hydroponic equipment from the old house is about to be very, very handy.
    â€œOur Joe is a psychopath,” I said flatly. “This is a nightmare.”
    â€œI know Our Joe,” said Dad. I stared at him.
    Everyone knew Our Joe, like you know the bad guy in every town. Rich as fuck and always doing things like