The Lost Boy - Chapter 8 – part three - A More Convincing Story

Leading on from the last part, I was telling you about my friend, and falling for her. That relationship was love.
But I don’t think any relationship doesn’t start with love in some degree.

I could sit here now and tell you it wasn’t love, looking back through older eyes, older pain — but that wouldn’t be the truth. It was love. I loved her.

Yes, maybe part of it was ego. I won’t pretend it wasn’t. Getting the attractive young woman that everyone noticed — part of me wore that like a badge. A trophy. But beneath that, she was my friend. And I loved her.

And in that version of me, love and chaos walked side by side. I didn’t know how to separate the two. I craved belonging. I craved feeling safe inside myself. I craved her.

We spent a lot of time sat together gaming while I got high — but that wasn’t all our lives were made up of. There were house parties, nights out with friends, and the kind of messy, wild fun that came with being young, hurt, and trying to outrun your own head.

But inside all of that noise, something darker still lived in me. Moments where the younger version of me — the broken, angry, confused one — came out swinging, desperate to grab hold of something solid in a world that kept shifting beneath his feet.

There were incidents. There always were.

One of them happened before she and I ever officially got together.

I’d been seeing someone else at the time — an older woman with a few kids. We had some good laughs together. But one night, her ex — a drinker — showed up. He’d already been told to leave, but he came walking back up the garden path. I’d had a few drinks myself, and as soon as I saw him coming, something in me sparked.

He stepped forward. I stepped forward. And before I even fully realised what was happening, we were in it. A flash of fists, anger, everything pouring out of me. I was dragged off him eventually, blood everywhere.

I got arrested that night.

A bike chain was found in the garden with his blood on it. They accused me of hitting him with it. I hadn’t — but looking at the scene, it didn’t really matter. It looked like I had. And with my history, it was hard to convince anyone otherwise. In the end, it was no further action. But the fear that night — the cold grip of what could have been — stuck to me for a long time.

Though if I’m being honest, not long enough to change anything.

Years later, that same night came back to me in the worst way. His brother found my brother and kicked him up and down a garden path, telling him it was “for me.” That’s the thing about violence — it doesn’t stop where you leave it. It carries on, finding people you love.

I haven’t seen that man since. Not because I’m afraid of getting hurt — but because that’s not the life I live anymore. And if our paths crossed again, I’m not sure I’d get a choice in how it played out.

The reason that memory came flooding back to me is because before that arrest, before the blood and the fallout, he’d actually been round mine one night. He was a friend of a friend, and I got so jealous — I’m not even sure why.

He was round mine, chatting to her, laughing, and something in me just flipped. I didn’t stop to think. Jealousy came like a switch being flicked. I grabbed him by the straps of his bag, lifted him, and sent him flying out the door with a boot to follow.

He was older than us all — a local alcoholic — but not a bad man. Just broken. Struggling. Like me. But I couldn’t see that then. I just saw someone close to what I thought was mine, and I reacted.

We actually spoke after that. He knew I was sorry. I meant it. But sorry doesn’t clean up the mess left behind when your pain drives your actions.

I know this story’s coming out in pieces, but that’s how it lives in my head. Messy. Fragmented. Real. These moments paint the picture of who I was then. Gareth — confused, volatile, desperate for control. Not control to dominate, but control to stop feeling so lost in a version of myself I didn’t even like.

And that need for control — it didn’t stop there.

There was another night. One that, honestly, should’ve sent her running for good.

We’d gone out with friends. Loud music. Too much alcohol. Everyone laughing. I remember the warmth of it — the way those nights started out feeling like nothing could go wrong.

Then the spark.

I saw one of my mates dancing with her. In my head, it looked intimate. Maybe it was. Maybe it wasn’t. I don’t really know anymore. What I do know is the story I told myself about it — the one that made her “mine” in my mind.

And then it happened.

I swung for my mate. Lost it. And worse — I spat at her. Writing that now still burns. I was hurt — whether I had any right to be or not — and that hurt came out as rage. The kind of rage that didn’t ask questions. It just acted.

And drunk, my rage didn’t have limits.

We went our separate ways that night. She ended up back with her ex. And me — I ended up where I always did after I’d burned everything down. On my knees the next day. Begging. Apologising. Promising change. Pleading for a chance to prove I wasn’t who I’d just shown her I was.

And somehow, she gave me that chance.

And that’s where it began with her. Not the behaviour itself — I’d seen it in me before. With my eldest daughter’s mum. But here, it was back.

It wasn’t as loud this time. I’d done some work on myself — or thought I had. I’d learned to dress it up differently. To call it “reacting.” To tell myself it was because of what other people did, not me.

But the truth is, that same old need for control was still there. It didn’t have a quieter voice… just a more convincing story. One I could sell to myself without even trying.

And there’s a song from around that time I still can’t listen to — not a single note. It’s strange how music can hold more than memory sometimes. One song can carry an entire storm of emotion.

This one doesn’t bring back a picture. It brings back a feeling. A feeling made of shame, regret, guilt, and a self-loathing that ran deep. It’s like the sound itself is tied to that night, that version of me, that place I never want to go back to.

This was young Gareth.
In love, but lost.
Confused. Angry. Shame buzzing under his skin like static.
Trying to hold onto something — someone — so he didn’t have to face the chaos inside himself.
Clutching for control, not to dominate, but to quiet the noise within.