by K. L. Savage
I push my feet against the dust-ridden ground and move further away. There must be inches of what looks like lint on the ground, but it isn’t. It’s just been that long since the place has been cleaned. There’s a musk in the air, hot and humid since no air flows this way. I cough when I inhale particles of I don’t know what and push myself down the hall, away from her creeping, slow steps.
The light above me flickers again, and the yellow glow illuminates against the mad lines against her face. Her eyes remind me of a witch, staring into a cauldron of potion, pleased that it looks ready to kill.
“Like so many others before you, you’ll rot in here. I’ll come in with your fix, fuck you up like you want to be—just like all addicts want to be.”
“No!” I shake my head. “I don’t want that. I’m clean. I don’t want to be high.” I think about my little girl and what I’ve lost, the pain and suffering, Patrick, the happiness I’ve found while relearning who I am without drugs, and that tells me that I’m done with heroin. I want nothing to do with it. “Patricia, you’re wrong. People can change. I don’t want to be an addict anymore.”
“Bullshit, you’ll leave here after all of our hard work, just like the rest of them. I knew the other girls were no good. It’s a good thing Lundon was here to take care of them. Just like he’ll take care of you.”
“What?” I think about all the women who have come and gone while I’ve been here. “No,” I say, horrified. “You’re wrong.”
“Aw.” Patricia pouts. “Is little Miss Sunshine going to cry over her crackhead friends?”
“Little Miss Sunshine is going to kick your ass,” I let slip from my mouth. Stupid since I’m the one trapped and without a weapon.
Patricia kicks a small rock out of the way with her black heel as she walks closer. I stay put like a good girl, watching her squat to get on my level. I set my jaw and never let my eyes leave hers. If she’s going to shoot me…
Let her.
At least I’ll die without fear and remember the eyes of the person who killed me.
“Famous. Last. Words, Sunshine.” She places the gun underneath my chin and forces me to tilt my head back. The barrel is cold, unused, but that can change in a matter of seconds if she shoots. I’ll be dead, but the metal will be hot, possibly smoking as if the gun is relaxed from blowing it’s load in my face.
It’s dirty fucking work, but someone has to do it, right?
CHAPTER TWENTY
PIRATE
“Wake up, you fucker.”
“Don’t rush him.”
“He’s freaking me out.”
“It’s not like he asked for this.”
“Didn’t he?”
“Shut up, Tool.”
“I’m just saying, we all saw his behavior over the years. He wanted to die.”
“And we were shit fucking friends who nearly let him do it.”
There are a few voices bouncing off one another, but the last voice I hear is Reaper’s. He is furious. It isn’t anyone’s fault but mine. They can’t blame themselves. The only person at fault here is me.
“But really, you big fucker, wake up.” Reaper speaks up again, nudging me with his hand.
“Leave him alone. He will wake up when he’s ready.” That’s Sarah, always the advocate.
“What if he doesn’t wake up? All that hard fucking work at that rehab center and for what? For this? That’s not right.”
Well, damn. That’s Knives. How many people decided to show up for my funeral?
“I won’t even cut out his tongue if he dies. I’ll let him keep it.”
I know who that is without opening my eyes.
My eyes are dry, rough, feeling like the side of a nail file. The lights are bright, and I squeeze my eyes shut again. I blink, trying to get some moisture flowing so it doesn’t hurt to look at my friends who decided to come see me.
I’m not sure where I am. The last thing I remember is walking down the hallway toward my room, and everything after that is a blur. I felt sick, and it all started in Havensworth’s office. I got extremely tired and lightheaded, but I thought it was because of what we were talking about.
That’s a voice I still haven’t heard.
“Look who’s back from the dead.”
I turn my head to see Bullseye sitting next to me, sharpening a dart. I didn’t know darts could be sharpened. I learn something new every day.
“Shit, Pirate, thank the devil.” Reaper stands at the foot of my bed and holds the rail, hanging his head. “You scared us shitless.”
“Sorry.” I lift my hand to my throat and rub it. It hurts to talk.
Sarah is near Reaper, and when she sees the gesture, she grabs the blue container and pours me a cup, then walks over to my side. “Here, let me help you.” Her tone is soft, reassuring, like a mother’s would be when her child is sick or injured.
I almost tell her to fuck off because I can drink from a damn cup myself, but when I try to sit up to wrap my lips around the rim, I can’t. Her hand runs through my hair and settles on the back of my skull, slightly pulling me forward so I can sip from the cup. The ice cold water drenches my parched throat, and I moan in relief, grab her hand, and force her to pour the rest down my throat.
“Pirate! You’re going to make yourself sick. You have to slow down,” she warns.
“The man is thirsty, Sarah. Let him drink. I’m just glad it isn’t rum.”
I let out a genuine chuckle. “Reaper has a point,” I say and then gently lay my hand on top of hers. Lifting my gaze, I smile the best I can with how weak I am. “Thank you. Can I please have another?”
“I don’t know. We should wait for the doctor,” Doc chirps from behind the crowd.
“You are a doctor.”
“Yeah, but I’m not your doctor. There’s a difference. And I don’t know what their plan is.”
I’ve been awake for a few minutes, so I haven’t had time to look around, but when I do, I immediately know where I’m at. The walls are painted a light shade of green, and there is a painting of the hospital in a wooden frame taking up the majority of the wall. The floors are a plain tile, spotless with no scuffs. The beeping of the monitor has me averting my gaze to my right, seeing machines that are way smarter than I am because I don’t know what they are for.
There’s the heart monitor that beeps steadily, and the oxygen flowing through my nose.
“It’s just now hitting ye, huh?” Skirt says, but there’s a heaviness in his voice that tells me he’s concerned.
“Yeah. What happened?” No one has an answer for me, but they all share a knowing look. They’re afraid to tell me.
Which means whatever it is, isn’t good.
“Let’s just wait for the doctor. She will have more answers than we do right now, okay?” Doc informs me as he casually sits on the bed, crossing his legs.
“Is everything okay? I came as quick as I could. My final ran longer than I expected.” Joanna skids to a stop at the door, trying to catch her breath. She’s sweating gallons, wearing a long-sleeve jacket in mid-summer. No fucking wonder. What is she thinking? She’ll have a heat stroke. It’s been a few months since everyone saw her. Last time I remember anything about her, she was almost done with school getting her degree in… Okay, that I don’t remember. I was too drunk, shamefully.
“Joanna, I’m surprised to see you,” I say. “Thanks for coming, but I’m okay. How did your final go?” I want the attention off me for a minute. I’d love to be left alone. I want to rest, but I also need someone to go to the rehab center and ask for Sunnie. I want her here.
She throws her hair up in a messy knot and strolls inside, Doc watching her with questioning eyes. He seems to be checking her out, but it’s too analytical. Doc senses something is up, and who am I to question a damn doctor?
“Fine. I think I did well. I’m on my way to the last semester.” She grins, her white teeth twinkling like pearls. She looks like hell, though. I know I look bad, but something is going on
with her. The bags under her eyes can’t be just from studying.
“Oh, I thought you were nearly done and on your way to graduating?” Doc questions, and all eyes are on him. Mine are on Joanna. I want to know what Doc sees.
“I was.” She kicks out a chair with her foot instead of using her arms like any other person and sits down. “I didn’t pass my trigonometry exam. I have to retake the class, then I can graduate.”
“Trig? Fuck that. I cheated in that class.”
“Reaper!” Sarah slaps him, telling him to shut up.
“What? It’s fucking hard, and it’s not like I ever use it. Addition, multiplication, basic division—that’s all anyone ever needs to get by in life, unless you’re going to be working for NASA or some shit.”
“How cool would it be to work for NASA?” Bullseye states as he polishes his freshly shined metal dart. “This bad boy would twinkle amongst the stars.”
“I bet blood drips so much slower in space.”
At once, our heads turn to look at Tongue, staring off into space with a resemblance of a smile on his face. I bet he’s imagining it right now, probably slicing off alien tongues or something weird like that.
Sarah snickers, and everyone else bursts out laughing, slapping Tongue on the shoulder for a good laugh.
“What? What did I do? What did I say?” Tongue questions peculiarly at Sarah.
Sarah shakes her head and loops her arm through his, laying her head on his shoulder. “Nothing. You’re just pretty great.”
“So are you,” he says, kissing the top of her head.
“Knock, knock.” The dozen heads in the room swivel to the door, and I follow their line of sight to see a short woman with brown hair pulled back into a low ponytail walk through the door. She wears a long white trench coat and thin blue glasses that show off her light eyes. “Wow, you are a popular man, Mr.—”
“Just call me Patrick,” I say, and Reaper quirks a brow at me, then nods in understanding. I’m not sure if I want to be called Pirate anymore. I need to think about it. I was that guy, but I’m not now. I don’t want my past to haunt me forever; it has enough already.
“Patrick,” she agrees. “I’m Doctor Lillian White. It’s nice to finally meet you now that you are awake.” She stands next to Bullseye, and he has that hungry look in his eye a man gets when he wants something.
Or someone.
“Excuse me,” she says to him. “You’re a bit close. I need a little space to check on my patient.”
“I can be your patient,” Bullseye says with a flirtatious smile, biting his lip as he openly checks her out.
“Brother, that works with cut-sluts.” Tool tugs him by the cut to give the lady some working space. “Not with educated, beautiful doctors.”
Bullseye scowls at Tool and shrugs out of his hold.
Dr. White doesn’t indulge them. She’s checking the monitors, pinching her lips in displeasure, or nodding when she sees something she likes. When her attention is finally on me, Skirt gives me two thumbs-up and a wink.
Poodle thrusts the air and Melissa, his ol’ lady, slaps him on the back of the head. “Behave,” she warns.
“Yes, ma’am.” He rubs the spot she hit, and I have to hold back a laugh as the doctor checks my heart.
“Do you know why you’re here, Patrick?”
I think back to the last thing I remember. “I was feeling sick during my therapy session, but that’s all I remember.”
“Yes, I have your notes here from Dr. Havensworth.” Dr. White flips through the file, and then she pauses, brings her head up to look at me with sad puppy dog fucking eyes, then returns her focus to the file. “Says here you were an alcoholic for eighteen years. That’s a long time.”
“I’m a fucked-up man.”
“This Sunnie, where is he?” she asks.
Poodle cackles, and Melissa hits him on the back of the head again. “Poodle.”
“Sorry, but it’s funny that she thinks Sunnie is a man. Can you imagine Pirate with a guy?”
Dr. White’s eyes widen. “Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Her real name is Sunshine.”
“That’s pretty.”
“She’s pretty, Dr. White. Do you think you can get her here? We understand each other in ways … in ways others don’t.” I see a few hurt expressions around the room, but nothing too serious. I hope they will forgive me for saying that.
“I’ll see what I can do.” She presses down on my abdomen, and a nuclear explosion of pain radiates through me.
“What the hell, Dr. White? You’re trying to kill me.” The way I breathe reminds me of a pregnant woman. I’m trying to get through the pain, but it’s so bad it’s causing another wave of nausea.
Dr. White looks grim. She pulls a tiny black flashlight out of her pocket, and she peels my eyelids back to look into each one. After she gets the results she wants, she sits on the bed like Doc was before she swooped in like she owns the place. “According to your bloodwork, your abdomen, and the yellow in the whites of your eyes, I’m sorry to tell you that your liver is failing you, Patrick. It’s progressed awfully fast, but I’d bet you’ve been experiencing symptoms for a few weeks now. You probably blamed it on detox, but it was the detox that made the liver realize it couldn’t work anymore.”
“Can it be reversed? I know sometimes when people get cirrhosis and if they catch it early enough—”
She interrupts Reaper. “That’s not an option in your case, Patrick. You will need a transplant. There’s just one problem I need to work through before getting you on the list.”
“What’s that?” I ask, kicking myself in the ass for letting my drinking get so out of hand that I’m to this point. This was the entire point, though, wasn’t it? To drink myself to death.
Now that death is here, and I have something to live for, the last thing I want to do is give up. I’ll fight as hard as I did to drink. That should be enough willpower to keep me alive.
“I have to convince the transplant board that you’re able to go on the UNOS. They don’t like to give alcoholics a transplant unless they have been clean for six months.”
“You have got to be kidding me!” Reaper punches the end of the bed, then spins around and kicks an empty chair, snapping the wooden leg off from the force of his strength and the steel-toed boot. “No, you fucking find a way for him to be on it, Doc. You get me? You don’t want to fuck with me. I don’t care where you work, how pretty you are, or what fucking rules you are supposed to follow. You are going to help him. You’re going to save him. He deserves a second chance. His rehab is going well. He doesn’t deserve a chance to prove that?”
“Reaper—” I try to interrupt him and tell him it’s okay, but he doesn’t let me.
“I’m serious, Pir—Patrick. I’m not going to let her ruin your chance at living a good life, something I should have helped you with earlier, something all of us should have helped you with before it got this bad.”
“Reaper, this is what I wanted. It’s not what I want now, but it’s something I have to deal with. I paved this road for myself, now I need to drive down it.”
“That’s not how life works, Patrick. It’s okay to fuck up, but fucking up isn’t supposed to kill you; it’s supposed to get you on track.”
“Yeah.” I pick at the callous on my hand and think about everything I could have had, but I let time slip through my fingers because I was locked in a corner of my mind I couldn’t get out. I’ll never be able to leave. I’ll die in that corner. I never thought I’d wish to turn back time, but if I could, I never would’ve picked up that damn bottle. “Life’s fucked up, Reaper, even when you’re on the right track.”
“I’ll cut someone’s liver out for you,” Tongue says, unsheathing his blade. The silver catches the sunlight through the windows, and his eyes turn hopeful and happy at the thought of doing this for me.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that, and if you don’t put the knife away in two seconds, I
’m calling security,” Dr. White warns, reaching for the phone on the wall.
“I never get to do anything,” Tongue drawls, slipping his knife in place.
“If everyone would just calm down and let me speak, you’d know that everyone can get tested to see if they are match. If someone volunteers a portion of their liver, then you don’t have to go on the transplant list, but if there is no match, that’s when the trouble would start.”
A few of the guys cheer, but Reaper still seems unsure. “There has to be someone in the club that’s a match. Call everyone. Everyone who is clean, tell them the Prez orders they get matched or I’ll reap their fucking souls from them.”
“On it, Prez.” Tool vanishes out the door, and Dr. White exhales. She sounds glad there is one less person in the room.
“If I don’t find a match, how long do I have?”
Everyone’s happy buzz of conversation ends, and I can’t manage to look at them. I’m too devastated letting myself get this far, knowing I had the family I wanted in reach and didn’t do a damn thing about it.
“That’s not going to happen. Someone in the club will have to be a match. Don’t worry about it,” Reaper reassures, but Dr. White sits on the bed and takes my hand in hers. Her fingers are oddly cold but comforting at the same time.
She isn’t biased. She doesn’t have to fill me with words of encouragement because they don’t exist. “With how quickly your liver is declining, I’m going to say three to six months.”
Sunnie’s face flashes before my eyes, her smile, the way her bubbly bullshit used to piss me off, and now I don’t want to be without it. Who is going to love her like I do? Who is going to treat her like she needs to be treated when I’m gone?
Another man will make love to the only woman I’ve ever loved, and that pain hurts worse than dying a hundred times.