We sit in the small cafeteria of the hospital. The coffee tastes like piss, but I down it anyway, hoping to clear my head.
Turns out Matt doesn’t expect me to say anything, which is just as well, since my brain is down to basic functions. As he talks, even that small part shuts down. He’s talking, and I’m staring at him. I hear snatches of sentences, words that make no sense.
And then they do.
‘Tumors have spread. Organs are failing. Won’t be long. Nothing they can do.’
“No,” I whisper. “Shut up.”
“Zane. I’m only trying to prepare you, man. I got the whole talk. I’m trying to condense it here for you. I just—”
“Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Fuck you.” I push my chair back, and distantly I hear it crash to the floor. Blindly I turn to go, get away. Another door, another attempt to escape.
What a fucking joke.
I stumble out into the parking lot. Matt calls my name, but I need a minute. Hell, I need a year. What does that mean, there’s nothing they can do? All this equipment, drugs, machines, trained doctors. Specialists. You hear about people saved and healed every day. You don’t hear about those who don’t make it.
Emma has to make it. She has to.
My hands shake as I pull out my cigarettes and light one. I draw on the smoke and close my eyes. Let this be a dream. Let me wake up right fucking now.
The parking lot blurs but doesn’t vanish. I’m still here, still trapped. Still waiting for the final, parting shot.
“Hey.” Matt steps out, beside me. “The hell, Zane? I was just trying to prepare you. This isn’t exactly easy for me, you know.”
“I know.” I suck more smoke into my lungs, hold it. Predictably, it does nothing to calm me down. “Sorry, fucker.”
It’s not enough. It never is. But that’s all I have.
Matts sighs, rakes a hand through his short dark hair. “You need to accept it, Zane.”
“What, like you have?” I stuff the cigarette in my mouth to stop myself from saying more, and I almost choke on my smoke.
“Dammit.” He kicks at a pebble and takes a few steps away. “She’s my wife, Zane. How do you think I feel about it?”
“She’s my sister. How about that?”
He slumps and turns back to face me. “There’s nothing we can do, man. I have to think of the kids.”
Right, the kids. I nod. It makes perfect sense.
No sense at all.
“Who’s with them?” I throw down my cigarette and step on it. “Want me to go check on them?”
“Nah. Stay until you’re sober.” Matt gives me a flat look, and I shrink a little. Didn’t fool him, huh? “I’ll go. You can stay with Emma for now.”
He gives me another long look before he heads toward his car. “Your friends know about this, right? Your roommate, that girl who likes cooking pasta for you, and Asher?”
“Sure they do,” I lie easily. “Why wouldn’t they?”
“Don’t know.” He shakes his head and turns to go. “Just making sure you’ve got someone to lean on, that’s all.”
His words chill me. I’ve always leaned on Emma and Matt. I want to ask where he will be when I need him, but he’s already gone.
Sunday afternoon finds me back on the road, heading back to Madison. Heading home. Oh yeah, right, home. Whatever.
I should leave the apartment. Move out. Stop clinging to the past. Or something.
I stop on the way to buy supplies. Whiskey. Cigarettes. A lighter. The basics.
I don’t think I’ve eaten anything all weekend, and don’t think I could stomach it, either. There’s a faint buzzing in my ears that I can’t seem to shake off. For once, I’m glad I don’t have a roommate. When I slam the door of the apartment shut behind me and step into the cold living room, I feel ready to shatter into pieces, and that’s not something I want anyone to see.
I turn on the TV, not even bothering to see what’s on, and unscrew the whiskey. Thus armed, with the bottle and my cigs, I step out onto the balcony and let the dark take me. This is where I’m supposed to be—floating in emptiness, blanking out my mind the only way I have left: drink, smoke. Rinse and repeat.
It’s going well. At some point, I blink my eyes open to find out I’ve slid down to the balcony floor, the bottle spilling whiskey on the floor and the cigarette burning a hole through my jeans to my knee. I throw it down and brush the hot ashes off me.
The smell of burnt flesh hits me, and I gag. The memory slams back into me—hands all over me, searing pain, gut-clenching fear. Hands bending me over, pulling my legs apart. A flash of white teeth, the red of burning embers in the dark. A filthy gag filling my mouth, stopping my cries.
Christ.
I gulp down more whiskey, let the soothing burn calm me. Fuck. With the pain of the burn, more senses return. I can hear someone pummeling on the apartment door. I try to ignore it, but the pummeling doesn’t stop. It goes on and on. It’s driving me insane.
“Zane.” Someone steps out on the balcony, and I jerk back, hitting my head against the balcony wall. The past blurs into the present, and I try to get away, but I’m cornered. I prepare to throw the bottle at the guy.
He squats down in front of me and grabs it from my hand. “Zane. What the hell, man?”
Oh shit. “Ash?”
Of course it’s him. Who else has a spare key? Next time I should padlock the door from the inside.
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Ash is strong. He trains more than any of us, and it’s a good thing, ’cuz my legs refuse to hold me. My balance is shot to hell, and we almost go down together, but in the last second, he manages to keep us upright.
“Dammit, Z-man. What have you done to yourself?” Ash drags me inside and drops me on the sofa.
I lean my head back with a groan. The room spins, so I close my eyes.
Ash mutters something more, but I can’t make it out. I want to sleep, but the burn on my knee aches, and my head is still too full of raw fear and ghostly pain.
“Here, drink.” Ash pushes a glass into my hand and glowers at me until I gulp it down.
“Ugh. This is water. Are you trying to kill me?” I cough and reach for the whiskey bottle he left on the table.
“Fuck’s sake.” Ash pries the bottle from my fingers and levels a laser-sharp stare at me. “Enough.”
He’s pissed. Of course he is. His dad was a drunk, and I shouldn’t push, but today I need to drink until I forget, and he’s not letting me, dammit. He moves away, taking the bottle with him. I should see where he puts it, so I can go get it later.
“The hell’s your problem?” I grumble as I attempt to put the empty glass back on the table. Not sure I’ll manage. The image wavers in my eyes.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Ash sits on the table in front of me, taking the glass from me. When did he come back into the room? I feel I’m missing chunks of time.