Scorpion. Eagle. Phoenix.
There's an old idea that a Scorpio lives three lives. I've lived all three, and I wrote them down in a book I narrate myself.
The Scorpion
Adderall at eight. Running a corner at twelve. Rehab at fifteen. A lockdown boarding school I got out of by smuggling a list of what they were doing to kids to someone on the outside. The scorpion stings to protect itself. Mostly it stings itself.
The Eagle
Smart, fast and completely lost. I ran a whole scene out of my dad's house and called it success. It ended on my knees on his floor, two days into withdrawal, asking God to kill the person I'd become.
The Phoenix
One breath in the mountains of Boone and my whole life replayed in an instant. I stayed thirty days, then ten months. I took my teacher's name. Now I hold the rooms I used to need.
