I was born crazy, and I’ve been pissing people off and making a nuisance of myself ever since. Being crazy is all that I know. It’s who I am. How I’m made. And it’s the only way I can make any sense of anything.
For me, life has been hard. Something I was forced into and then prevented from leaving, even when I ached to escape. Life was a promise of something beautiful – magical even – but that only led to heart-breaking misery and devastating disappointment when it failed to deliver. And I was desperate to run away from it all. To bolt, to flutter away, and never look back.
Then, one miserable, crappy Monday when I was sixteen, my life morphed into a living, scorching, suffocating hell. And I got burned. Badly. I did something unforgivable. I shattered promises and fractured truths. I broke another family into so many tiny little pieces that it could never be put back together again. But I didn’t mean to.
Life ended. Nightmares began. And I knew I’d never be the same again. None of us would.
But then along came Gabriel. If my life was a nightmare, he was the dream that I never wanted to wake up from. He was the boy with the ability to calm me in a way that no pill ever had. The boy I wanted to be sane for, the boy I wanted to live for, the boy who filled the cracks in my heart. He taught me that life is for living and loving, and that sometimes it’s okay to feel like you don’t fit the mold.
What he didn’t tell me was that life is a bitch, and she has an uncanny way of coming back to bite you in the ass.