Blazed by Jason Myers

me.
    That dude’s a piece of shit.
    Like six blocks later, I stop skating for a second and drop a baby blue down my throat.
    Now I’m ready to leave Joliet, I guess.
    My business is finished here, I’m thinking as the chorus begins. . . .
    â€œPeople said his brain was infected by devils . . .”

18.
    MY MOTHER’S RIGHT PINKIE FINGER is in a splint. It shattered when she hit my face. They did surgery on it, which I wasn’t aware of at all yesterday. To me, it just shows you how tough my mother can be. Like, she spent all morning and most of the afternoon with a shattered finger.
    According to the doctor, she’d ingested the majority of the booze and drugs about an hour before I found her. That’s some tough living right there. And it makes me super happy, as fucked up as that may seem.
    I stand in the corner of her hospital room, underneath the TV that’s hanging from the ceiling, with my arms crossed.
    â€œThere he is,” my mother says slowly. “There’s my boy, my big hero, my Jaime.”
    She looks terrible. Her face seems sunken, and the bags under her eyes are so dark and big.
    â€œJaime,” she whispers. “Come here. Let me touch you.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œSo I know that this is real.”
    My eyes well up. I’m so pissed at her. Goddamn it, she tried to kill herself, and she’s handed me right over to the one person she’s tried to keep away my whole life.
    â€œPlease,” she whispers again. “Please, Jaime. I’m your mom.”
    And she’s right.
    She is, even if I barely recognize her right now. Even if I’ve barely recognized her over the last year or so.
    She’s still the woman who raised me all by herself, and sacrificed everything that was sacred to her so I could even fucking be here right now.
    She’s still the most amazing soul that ever existed.
    She’s still the beautiful lady with the best taste in music and books.
    So I go to her, because that’s what you’re supposed to do. You’re supposed to go to your mother when she needs you the most.
    She lifts her left hand, and I take it in mine and squeeze it. She smiles so big and pretty.
    â€œThat’s nice,” she says. “It’s so nice to see you again, Jaime.”
    â€œYou too,” I say back.
    Then she frowns and pulls her hand away and sits up.
    â€œWhat’s wrong?” I ask her.
    â€œYour face,” she says. “What happened to your face?”
    As hurtful and sad as it is for me to hear that question spill from her lips, it’s exactly what I wanna hear from her. It’s perfect. She really doesn’t remember anything about what happened the other day. So I figure that at some point yesterday, she put two and two together. Her busted right hand and my black left eye.
    This had to have been what triggered her suicide attempt. But she drank too much, and she took too many pills, and now she can’t even remember why she tried to take her life.
    It’s disgusting.
    It’s also the best scenario that can come from this total disaster.
    I sigh and shake out my shoulders. “I got into a fight at school yesterday,” I tell her. “That’s what happened to my face.”
    â€œOh, Jaime,” she says. “Why? Why did you get into another fight?”
    I shrug. “It just happened.”
    She groans. “Great. What did the principal say?”
    â€œNot much. I just had to spend the rest of the day in detention.”
    â€œDamn it,” she says. “Do you know how much I pay for you to go to that school?”
    â€œDoes it even matter right now?” I ask. “They’re sending me to San Francisco with my father.”
    This incredible look of shock and anguish washes over her face now, and she slides her left hand slowly down it.
    â€œOh my god,” she whispers.
    I make a face. “You didn’t know?”
    She