by K. L. Savage
I’m getting tired of people wanting to know my story. I’m getting tired of people wanting to help me when there is nothing they can do to help. It’s maddening. Everyone thinks they are fucking magic. They think they can say the right words, be the change, be the hope in someone’s life, and it’s just as sad and pathetic as my inability to move on from the horrible day eighteen years ago.
The only person who helps is Sunnie because she doesn’t fill me with words of absolute bullshit. She knows what it’s like, and she knows words aren’t enough; not for the experiences we have. Only surrounding yourself with people who have the same feelings brings comfort.
Am I going to do this? Am I finally going to air it all out? Is it going to help? Probably not, but if I’ve learned one thing by being here, it’s that I have nothing else to lose. “My sister and I were kidnapped and placed in separate cells. I watched the man bait her, rape her, and kill her. I begged him to come for me next, so he did.” I smile when I remember the sick crunch of his bones breaking as I drove the shovel into him. “I chopped off his wrists with the shovel he was going to use to bury my sister. I locked him in the cage, carried my sister’s body upstairs, and held her until help arrived.” I never take my eyes away from Havensworth as I speak. Her brown eyes are swimming with tears. I bet she had no idea I was about to say.
It isn’t your run-of-the-mill story. It’s one of those you only hear every now and then.
“Sunnie’s father just got my sister’s murderer out on parole. So what advice do you have to make me better, Doctor Havensworth. I’m waiting.” I don’t care how great of a doctor someone is, there are only so many subjects they can help with. Judging by her reaction, the tears in her eyes, this is a first for her.
I bet she gets a lot of people losing their shit over their cat dying. Don’t get me wrong, I love animals, but to become an alcoholic? That seems more like an excuse to drink and say you have a problem.
Havensworth clears her throat and runs her hands down her pristine blue skirt. “Well, that explains a lot. I’m very sorry you had to experience something so horrific at such a young age.” She moves around the desk, graceful like a ballerina as she takes a seat. “Tell me, when you’re drinking, do you hear her voice? See your sister?”
“No. That’s why I drank so much, to numb her.”
“Her? You sound like she’s still alive.”
I rub my knuckles over my heart when it starts to ache. “In a way she is. I’ve lived that day over and over so many times in my head. I hear her say I didn’t try enough or that I let the ‘bad man’ get her.”
“But you didn’t,” Havensworth says, pressing a tissue under each eye so she doesn’t ruin her mascara.
I hold in my temper when I take her words as a question instead of a statement. “Hell no, I didn’t. I know I’m a fucking biker, and you think I couldn’t give a flying fuck about anything, but that’s not how it works. I’m a fucking human being. I care. Just like you fucking care, just like Gale, just like everyone else in this shithole rehab center.” I snatch a picture off her desk and throw it against the wall as hard as I can and scream as the glass shatters. “I did everything I could while being locked away and left to watch my sister die. I did what I could!” I pound my chest and heave. “I was a good brother. I loved Macy. She was my best friend. When she died, a part of me died. I will never be the same no matter how many sessions you throw at me, give me words of encouragement, or fucking medication!” I yell, swiping a jar of pens off her desk next. She jumps as they join the broken shards of glass on the floor. “I’ll be the guy who was too weak to save the one person he gave a damn about. I have to live with seeing her lying there, crying for me, begging me to help her as he abused her. You don’t have memories like that running through your mind. You don’t have your guilt”—I dig my index finger against my temple—“eating away at your conscience, at your goddamn soul, mocking you, making you feel worthless.” I lick the sweat off the top of my lip as I stand and back away. “So keep your empty words. I don’t want to hear them.”
Bubba.
I sneer, rumbling like a lion about to attack when I hear Macy’s voice. “Shut up! Just shut up, damn it. Let me fucking rest.” I plop down in my chair and bend my head between my legs. “Just let me rest,” I repeat. My lungs hurt. My throat is dry. Blood rushing deafens me. My hands shake.
But I don’t hear her voice.
I hear nothing.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SUNNIE
I’m waiting for Pirate to get back from his therapy session in his room. Gale isn’t here today, so it’s like having a free day with Patricia maintaining the halls. She’s so wrapped up in her book, she doesn’t notice who is where.
It’s been awhile since I’ve gotten my hands on that book. I need to know what happens. If only they allowed romance novels in the library here. I’m about to carve my eyes out if I read another non-fiction novel. And the self-help books? They are everywhere. Why do I need to read a self-help book when I’m in a place that gives help?
It’s like I’m being smothered and pushed to ‘get well’ soon. I’ll get well on my own damn time.
I scratch the inner part of my elbow again, the habit unwilling to break. I glance down at my arm and see the track marks, dozens of scars littering my skin. They can’t even stick me with a needle there anymore. When I need IV fluids, they can’t find a decent vein, so they always have to insert it at the top of my hands.
Or they used to. Now that I’m clean, I’m not overdosing anymore and getting rushed to the hospital.
Getting antsy, I roll out of bed and decide to snoop around the room. He has the same oak chest of drawers that I do, and glancing toward the door to make sure I’m alone, I open one. I peek inside and see nothing besides white shirts. Sliding right, I pull that drawer open and see sweatpants; nothing special.
Except when he has them on.
I smile to myself when I think about him and open the next drawer. This time, I’ve found something I don’t think I’m supposed to find.
Letters.
A dozen of them.
I pick one up that has Pirate’s name in chicken-scratch, and I want to open it. Will I learn more about the man, or will I be diving into something I have no right diving into?
Right as I’m about to open it, the doorknob jiggles. “Crap,” I hiss and toss the letter in the drawer, then bump it shut with my hip. I jump onto the bed and act like I’ve been relaxing, which is impossible on these beds. I swear they are made of stone. They want people to heal, but they can’t have us get a good night’s rest?
“Hey, you,” I say when I see Patrick mosey in the door. I see how tired he looks, and I’m immediately concerned. I roll out of bed and head straight toward him as he sags against the door. He looks exhausted and clammy. “Hey, are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. I think I’m coming down with the flu or something. Maybe I feel like roadkill after that therapy session. I think she might sue me. I fucked up her office, and I think I had a breakthrough, but it came with damage. And I think I’m sick because I feel worse than I did when I went in there.”
“Patrick!” I try to sound excited for him since he looks like someone kicked his puppy. I throw my arms around his waist and give him a big bear hug. “That’s great. What happened?” I know he doesn’t like talking about what happened.
He pushes away from the door and kicks off his shoes, stumbling over his feet. He catches himself on the wall, sways, and I dive to catch him before he collapses. I barely manage to break his fall. My knee hits the ground with a brutal crack, and I hope it sounds worse than it is. I can’t move since I have 200 pounds of man limp against my back, and I can’t tell if I broke my knee or not. I hope it’s just sore. “Patrick?” I plead his name through troubled breaths.
Silence.
“Patrick? Are you okay?” I shake him. “Patrick?”
No answer.
Fear wells up inside me, and I can’t think of wha
t to do next. My mind freezes as my body is pushed into the unforgiving ground. “Patrick? Please, answer me.” My voice cracks with emotion and the attempt to flip over so I can check on him. “Damn it.” He is heavy. I somehow get my hand under me and shove him with all my might. My knee twinges and I wince, but I huff through the pain. I have to push through. I have to make sure he is okay.
I wiggle out from under his giant body and inhale a long, sharp breath when my lungs are free from being squished. Taking a beat, I push my hair out of my face and scurry to the side of Patrick. “Patrick?” I say his name again, and his lids flutter open finally. The irises I love so much are light, dull. The thunderous burden he carries isn’t cracking the grays with lightning, and I miss it. I want his storms back. “Hey, you,” I say sweetly while scooting closer to his side so I can lay his head on my lap. “You scared the hell out of me. What happened?” I pet the scruff on his face, showing him that I’m here.
He’s sweating, dark circles are under his eyes, and his skin has changed to an odd color. “I don’t feel so hot, Sunnie. Get someone.” He gags and then snaps his head to the left and vomits all over the floor, getting the biscuits and gravy we had earlier off his chest. It drips off the side of his mouth as he coughs. “I really don’t feel well.”
“Patrick!” I shoot up to my feet and run to the door. I try to swing it open, but his feet are in the way. All I can do is crack it open. I stick my nose and mouth between the small space and shout, “Someone! We need help. Call 911! Someone, please.” My cries for help are broken through alarm and shock. I peek over my shoulder to see his breathing labored, and then I look at his feet blocking the doorway. I have to figure out how to move him, but I don’t know how.
I shut the door when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway. “Help is coming, Patrick,” I say calmly.
Making sure I sidestep the vomit, I squat by his head and grab onto his hands, wincing when my hand slips across something wet. I don’t want to know what it is. I plant my feet and pull, trying to move his body far enough so they can open the door. “God, how are you so fucking heavy?” I hold my breath and grunt while I tug, and eventually I move him out of the way.
I’m sweaty.
I think there is puke on me.
I don’t care.
I’m too worried about Patrick.
“You’re scaring me,” I cry, sitting next to him as we wait for help to come. “Please, be okay. Please, be the stomach flu,” I beg. “Oh, God.” I hold his head to the side as he pukes again; this time it’s stomach bile. “It’s okay. I have you, baby. I have you,” I say through the threat of fucking losing it. This isn’t normal. I don’t smell alcohol in his stomach, but one can’t be too sure when it comes to a recovering addict. “Patrick, babe, hey.” I grab his cheek and shake his head a little. “Look at me. Did you drink today? Be honest with me. It’s okay if you did, but you have to tell me so I can help you.”
His eyes are hooded, and the whites of his eyes are hued with yellow.
“Did you drink? Blink twice for no and once for yes,” I ask, hoping that my words penetrate his haze.
One.
Two.
I sag with relief and kiss his forehead. “You’re going to be okay. You’re going to be fine.”
He reaches an arm back and lands his hand on my thigh. His fingers are weak, shaking, and when he attempts to tighten his grip, his hand slides off my leg, slapping against the carpeted floor. “No drinks,” he croaks. “Swear it.” His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. As he closes his eyes, the door bursts open, and the paramedics swoop in along with Patricia and an orderly.
Patricia gasps, holding her hand over dried pink lipstick. The orderly is new, a guy I’ve never seen before. He has short clipped hair, reminding me of a typical military haircut that goes along with the stern expression on his face. He reminds me of the Joker with his pointed chin and beady eyes.
He screams trouble.
The paramedics are in blue uniform, lowering the gurney to prepare to lift Patrick off the ground. One medic is a female while the other is male, but it’s the woman who takes charge, checking Patrick’s blood pressure and heartrate. “Pulse is fast, but steady. Blood pressure is through the roof. We need to get him to the hospital as soon as possible.”
“He’s an alcoholic,” Patricia adds.
My eyes narrow to hers, and I take a step forward to shut her fucking mouth up when the orderly holds me back by my arms. “He’s a recovering alcoholic. He hasn’t had a drink since he got here. You can smell the damn puke on the floor, bitch!” I sneer, and Patricia turns red in the cheeks.
“No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you upset, dear. I was only trying to give him information,” Patricia cowers, wrapping her plum-colored cardigan around her waist.
“I don’t care. He isn’t an alcoholic. Not anymore.” My eyes drop to Patrick as they lift him onto the white gurney with red rails.
“No, that’s good to know. The hospital will need his files. Let’s go,” the lead paramedic says to the male who looks like he just graduated high school with his acne face and fumbling hands as he lifts the IV.
I don’t have time to threaten him because they are running out the door. I try to run after them, but Joker holds me back. “Let me go. What are you doing?” I try to yank free of his hold by wiggling and pulling, but his hands tighten around my wrist to stop me. He’s rubbing the skin in the wrong direction, and it burns. “Let me go!” I scream, and the female medic turns around when she hears my distress.
Her golden eyes are bright against her caramel skin as she gives me a stern stare. “Are you family?” she asks.
“What? No, I’m his … friend,” I make sure to say in front of Patricia so she can’t run off and tell her buddy Gale.
Fucking, Gale.
“I’m sorry. Only family can come. Come to the hospital later, and maybe you can get an update.” Like a ghost, she’s gone in the blink of an eye.
“What?” I scream, pulling on Joker’s hands until my wrist aches. “Let me go! I said let me go. He needs me. How can you not let me go with him? Patrick! I’m here.” My throat hurts from bellowing at the top of my lungs. My cries echo down the hall, being left alone in their misery. “Patrick.” I fall to the ground and sob, but the Joker doesn’t let me stay on my knees for long. He forces me to my feet and shoves me out the door. “What is your problem? Can I have a minute? My best friend just got wheeled away in a damn ambulance, and I don’t know what’s wrong with him.”
The man gives me a sickening smile, one that turns his cheeks up too far and makes his eyes too small. “He’s probably fucking wasted just like all drunks are. Once a druggie, always a druggie. Once a drunk, always a drunk. People don’t change,” he says, giving me a final push.
“Get your hands off me. I’m going.” I shrug out of his hold, and Patricia comes around from behind Joker, and her shy demeanor vanishes. With a snarl, she grips a handful of my hair and drags me to my room.
“I’m sick of you causing trouble. I’m sick of you. Hell, I’m sick of all of you. I hope that drunk dies. One less for the world to worry about.”
I try to rip her hands away, but her hold is too tight. My eyes burn with hatred and rage, wishing I could defend myself, but I can’t. No one would believe me over her. I’m the druggie. She’s the responsible adult.
“I think it’s time you learn where your place is,” she says, bypassing my room.
“What … where are you taking me?” I ask, frightened as we get further from the patient rooms. “Let me go! Stop. Why are you doing this?”
“Because I know you and that drunk are more than friends. I’m going to make sure you are far away from here; do you hear me? Maybe in a river, the ocean, or six-feet under, but I’m not going to have you causing problems with the other patients, thinking they can screw around and be sinful. In God’s name, I never thought I’d be tested so much.”
“I need to know how he’s doing, please. I’ll do
whatever you want. I need to know if he’s okay,” I beg. I’m about two seconds away from either getting on my knees and praying to her or trying to make a run for it.
I know I won’t get far. There are too many orderlies, and there is security at every corner.
Except this part of the facility.
The part that hasn’t been renovated since the house was built back in the 1800s. It’s blocked off by a set of double doors and metal bars, but Patricia pulls out a key.
Of course, she has a key.
The dungeon-like doors slide open, and then she scans her work I.D. Something clicks and the doors open, creaking from not being used all these years. When we get inside, the door shuts, and Patricia pushes me forward.
My foot catches behind my ankle, and I trip, holding my hands out to brace my fall. Patricia turns on a light, and the old hanging lamps buzz as they turn on, flickering with suspicion. There are cobwebs everywhere, and the walls are covered in a film of dirt and rot while pictures hang askew and faded.
“I hate people like you,” Patricia says, pulling a small gun from the pocket of her oversized cardigan.
“What the fuck, Patricia? When did you get a gun? Why are you doing this? Over Patrick? Why do we mean so little to you? I wouldn’t be a problem if you would’ve let me go with him.”
She cackles and cocks the gun; it’s small and fits just right for her hand.
Size doesn’t matter. It’s the bullet that’s going to pack the punch.
I’ll never admit that I’m afraid. Little Patricia, goddamn certifiable while working in a rehab center, fronting with her romance novels. I knew she was trouble. No one is that perfect.
“What would God think if I let two sinners, addicts, be together? That isn’t making the world a better place. You two won’t stay away from one another. I see you leaving your little notes, all smiling and happy. You and I both know once you walk out that door, you’re going to relapse. Why should the people keep paying for your habit? You’re weak! Weak!” she screams and hedges closer, the barrel of the gun a tiny dot ahead of me. “Gale is gone for a few weeks because of the nasty hairline fractures in her hip, thanks to Lundon. You’re all mine. I’m going to let you die like you were meant to. Drugged up and used.”