Madness

by Zac Brewer

  That’s when I made a break for it, slipping his grasp and hurrying to reach the riverbank. As my hand made contact with grass, his wrapped around my ankle. “No, Brooke. Don’t leave me!”

  The color was leaving his face, and when he blinked it took effort. He was fading fast. He pulled my leg, but I kicked out with my free leg, hitting him in the jaw with my foot. I crawled up onto the riverbank and got my bearings. I staggered, coughing, and moved as quickly as I could toward home. Behind me, there was silence but for the sound of the river flowing.

  I turned back toward the water. The current was taking an unconscious Derek away, and fast. He was going to die if I didn’t do something. And though everyone I knew might’ve said to let him go, that I didn’t owe him anything after what he’d done to me, I just couldn’t. Derek was a good guy with a troubled life. We all need help sometimes, and right now, Derek needed mine. I dove back into the water, swimming to him as quickly as I could. My arms were sore and still feeling weak, but I pushed on until I reached him. The moment my hand made contact with his body, my mind went back in time to the old man who’d saved me not so long ago. My memory of it was broken into hazy bits and pieces, but I could recall one thing distinctly. He’d said, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It’s gonna be just fine.”

  I wanted it to be okay for Derek too. I was living proof that wanting to die, even trying to die, didn’t necessarily mean the end of your life.

  I pulled his unconscious body up onto the riverbank and checked his pulse. It was weak, but still there. Tearing off fabric from my shirt, I tied makeshift bandages around his wrists. “You’ll be okay, Derek. Please, please be okay.”

  As I ran for help, tears streaked my face. He had to live. He just had to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  It had been a long week of police interviews, emergency therapy sessions with the doc, and pleading with my parents to please, please, please just let it go for one night—forget about what Derek had done and tried to do—and let me hide away in a single moment of a normal life. After a lot of talking, and even more talking with the doc, they’d finally relented. And it was a good thing too. Because the Apothecary looked like his face was melting off.

  The play had been going extremely well, with only minor errors, such as Juliet’s nurse being late to the stage and Lord Capulet fumbling his lines. Well, that, plus the Apothecary’s inability to stop sweating the makeup off his face. Luckily, Michael had made his way over, patted the Apothecary’s face gently with a paper towel to dry it some, and reapplied pancake and setting powder just before he was set to go on. It was a success so far, and the energy between Romeo and Mercutio was incredible—not that I was surprised by that.

  Duckie had been perfectly on cue all night, but the moment he’d been nervous about was about to come to fruition. I watched him, holding my breath. Mercutio had just been stabbed. He stumbled, making jokes about being a grave man, and then . . . I could see it in Duckie’s demeanor. He wasn’t Duckie then. As he fell to the ground, his hand trembling as he reached out to Romeo, who stood stunned, he was Mercutio. The audience was completely silent as he cried out, “A plague! On both your houses!”

  My heart was in my throat, and I could barely see through the tears welling in my eyes. The audience was stunned. And then they erupted in applause.

  Good job, Duckman. Good job.

  I watched the rest of the play, but couldn’t even look at the stage during the suicide scene. It was too much, too real, too close to home. But when the play was over, the bows taken, the applause given and received, I hunted down Duckie and hugged him tighter than ever. “You were amazing!”

  Tucker came up behind Duckie and said, “You really were.”

  Duckie released me and met Tucker’s eyes. “Were?”

  Tucker grinned. “Are. Of course.”

  When they kissed, it seemed so natural, so effortless, so easy. A spot of envy appeared on my heart, but I brushed it away. Duckie and Tucker deserved happiness. So did I, but that didn’t have to mean romance. Not now. Not yet. Maybe not for a long time.

  “Brooke!” My mom’s voice carried all through the backstage. She and Dad hurried over, and she hugged me tight before turning to Duckie and hugging him too. “It was wonderful. Just wonderful.”

  We both thanked her while Dad held his hand out to Tucker. “So you’re the man responsible for the smile on Ronald’s face these days. Nice to meet you, son.”

  Tucker shook his hand, blushing slightly. “Nice to meet you too, sir.”

  Duckie reached over and took Tucker’s hand in his. They chatted with my parents, but I wasn’t really listening. Mostly because I was distracted by the sight of Michael holding hands with Claire. They were both smiling. I wasn’t sure when or where they’d gotten together, but I was happy for Michael that they had.

  Duckie nudged me and said, “So the after party starts in about a half hour. Are you comin’?”

  Before I could answer, my dad slipped twenty bucks into my hand and said, “Home by two.”

  My mom smiled. “Two-ish.”

  And even though it was lame, I hugged them both right then and there—without any doubt that we’d make it back to the cabin someday soon.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  It was strange to be back at the inpatient facility. And much better to be a visitor than a patient. But despite the fact that I now understood how important it was that I’d been treated inpatient here, the moment the antiseptic smell filled my nose, I felt a flutter of panic inside my chest.

  The fluorescent-yellow visitor badge was stuck to the left side of my jacket. I stared at it, wondering what Derek would say when I saw him. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks—the length of his stay here so far. Would he be furious? Sad? Grateful? I had no way of knowing, really. I only knew how I had felt. And if he was anything at all like me, he wouldn’t be feeling up for company.

  I waited by the desk and did everything I could not to look to my left at the floor where I’d seen Joy and her lifeless eyes. Seeing that floor again would only remind me of her hair spread out on the tiles, her blood pooling underneath her. It was the last thing I needed on a day when I needed to be strong. So I didn’t look. Because I was a survivor. And I was determined to keep being one.

  The nurse who’d checked me in and given me my badge smiled as she gestured for me to follow. “He hasn’t really spoken a word in the two weeks he’s been here, so don’t expect much. Leave the door open at all times, and if you need anything, you just call. Okay?”

  “No problem.” I took a deep breath and released it. My lungs felt like they were shaking. Nerves, I guessed.

  Through the glass I could see that Derek was sitting on his bed, with his feet on the floor. He wasn’t really looking at anything that I could tell, just sitting there with a furious look on his face, fuming.

  “Hey, Derek.” I moved into the room slowly, not knowing what to expect. I’d only been allowed to visit well before visitors’ day due to a recommendation to the inpatient doctors from Dr. Daniels. He thought that Derek might benefit from seeing a friendly face. I wasn’t at all certain that Derek considered my face a friendly one.

  “They told me that I could come visit today, so I wanted to come check on you, see how you’re doing.” I stepped closer to him, and he flinched but kept his eyes off me. Taking a chance, I sat on the bed beside him. We stayed there, in tense silence, for several minutes. Derek never moved, never looked at me once. That sick antiseptic smell filled my nose.

  I shifted on the bed, the springs squeaking under my weight, until I was facing him. Keeping my voice low, so that it was just between him and me, I said, “It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. I just wanted to tell you something. Something you might not want to hear.”

  He was so handsome. Even pale and angry and at the end of his rope, he was lovely. What’s more, I knew that the things that he’d done to me had been a desperate attempt on his part to connect with another person and escape his father’s abuse.
I didn’t need the doc to explain that much to me. He’d confirmed it, but I hadn’t needed for him to.

  I leaned closer, and to my surprise, Derek remained very still as I whispered in his ear.

  “I know what it’s like.” I wet my lips, searching for the right words. Words that I knew I wouldn’t have listened to when I’d been inpatient—advice that I never would have taken when I was still in the clutches of my suicidal thoughts. “I know what it’s like to be lost in that dark tunnel of depression. It feels hopeless. It feels like nothing will ever be right again. When I was at my lowest, I was absolutely convinced that nobody cared about me and I had no reason to stick around.”

  His jaw tightened and he balled his hands into fists, but he didn’t move or even flinch at my words. “But I was wrong. Life can be really beautiful. Even if happiness is a fragile thing, it’s worth fighting for.”

  In the hall outside the eternally open door, a nurse pushed a medication cart past Derek’s room. Memories of my time here echoed in my mind, but from a different perspective now. This was where it had all started—my afterlife, my survival. And this was where Derek’s would begin as well.

  “I know you never meant to hurt me. And I’m glad you’re getting help—even though you may not want it. I’ll keep visiting, if you want. Because you need a friend, and I want to be that for you.” Ever so gently, I took his left hand in mine and uncurled his fingers. I placed in his palm the best thing that I could ever think to give him—a black origami swan, folded from the note that he’d left on my locker. The one that had simply read “I love you.” I stood and placed a soft kiss on his cheek before turning to walk out the door. His cheek, to my surprise, was covered in tears, leaving a salty taste on my lips.

  As I walked out of Derek’s inpatient room, I knew that this was only the beginning of his journey. I also knew that I was living proof that survival was possible.

  Duckie and my parents were waiting outside for me, understanding I might need a little support after seeing Derek. When I approached, Duckie gave me a big hug.

  Mom asked, “How is he?”

  I looked back at the building—the place I’d considered a prison for six weeks, even though the walls I’d built around myself had been far worse than those of Kingsdale—and said, “He’s got a lot of work to do.”

  Dad nodded and opened the back passenger-side door for me. As I slipped inside the car, he said, “You ready to head to Dr. Daniels’s office now?”

  Looking up at the third floor, fourth room in, I could see Derek standing there. He was watching us. My heart ached for him in empathy. “Yeah. I have a lot to tell him.”

  Once we were all buckled in, Dad started the car, and we moved down the road, the inpatient facility shrinking in the side mirror. Smaller and smaller, until it was nothing at all.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  To say it’s not easy to write a book about depression, suicidal ideation and attempts, self-harm, and a dire need to be loved and understood would be a gross understatement for anyone. But considering that I have experienced all those things personally, I will say that this was the most difficult book that I have ever written. And I absolutely would not have gotten through it without some really amazing people.

  My fabulous agent, Michael Bourret, isn’t just the best damn literary agent on the planet. He’s also an incredible friend. Thank you, MB—for listening, for giving a damn, for sticking with me, for believing in me, for lifting me up. You’ve given me great advice, listened to me cry over the phone, helped build my outstanding career, and gone out of your way to be there for me. I honestly don’t know what I’d do without you.

  My incredible editor, Andrew Harwell, deserves a standing ovation every time he walks into a room. Andrew, you’ve been my friend for a long time, since Vlad was just dipping his toe into high school. I could never trust anyone else to help me dig through my psyche to create a book like this. Thank you for understanding how challenging these subjects are for me and for offering encouragement and kindness. You make me a better writer, which is just about the best gift any editor can give someone. I mean, besides cool mix tapes. ☺

  My fantastic team at HarperTeen—you are unmatched in enthusiasm, support, creativity, and awesomeness. Though I can’t list everyone here, I want to make an effort to thank at least a few of you. Rosemary, you are such a gem, and I’m so glad that you heard me speak that day at NCTE. Thank you for everything. Olivia Russo, you are the best publicist one could ever hope for. Thank you for taking such good care of me. Epic Reads! You guys are so rad, I just can’t even. Thank you for the smiles when I’ve needed them and for all the fun and support. Oh, and for letting me lick that ARC that one time. Everyone else that I’ve not named here: I may not remember your names and will likely reintroduce myself a million times whenever I come to the office, but I swear, I adore each and every one of you. Keep being your lovely selves and rockin’ the way that you do.

  The biggest rebels of all—every damn librarian out there. What can I say to you to express how much you mean to me? It was a librarian who inspired my love of reading. And it was many librarians who first introduced my books to readers everywhere. Thank you! You’re always going to hold a very special place in my heart. Please keep doing the magic that you do and spreading that joy of the written word. Readers, even those who don’t yet realize that they are readers, are counting on you. So am I.

  Many heartfelt thanks to the medical professionals who have and are continuing to help me find a sense of peace while navigating the wild waters of mental illness. It may be my journey, but it’s nice to know that there are lighthouses along the way.

  The esteemed members of my Minion Horde—my loyal, wacky, beautifully weird, consistently wild, often creepy, forever FANGtastic Minions: I’ve always told you that I’d be honest with you. This book is further proof of that. Many of you know my story, or at least parts of it. And many more understand what it is to suffer from dark thoughts. Just don’t ever forget that when you’re way deep inside that pitch-black tunnel of depression . . . I’m right there beside you, holding your hand. All you’ve gotta do is squeeze. We’ll make it to the light at the end every time. And we’ll do it together, no matter what. Thank you for listening to me, for sharing your stories with me, and for being a part of something very special. Long live the Minion Horde!

  My best friends, A. S. King and Andrew Smith—whenever things get dark, for any of us, it’s nice to know that someone is always there to listen . . . or to offer a slice of lemon pie when needed. You two are a rare breed, and I count myself extremely lucky to have you in my life. Mad love to both of you. (Now, get back to work!)

  My wonderful son, Jacob—you and I have been through so much together, not all of it good, but we’ve persevered with strength, stubbornness, and lots of hugs. And while I’ll always think of you as that little blond kid, I’m so proud of the man that you’ve become. I know you have demons of your own, but any time you need me, I’ll grab my sword (which will look like Sephiroth’s, naturally) and sprint into battle with you. You’ve always had my back, and I’ll always have yours. I love you.

  My brilliant daughter, Alexandria—you are consistently the sunshine in my cloudy day. There is a light that follows you everywhere you go, and I know that you will continue to make the world a better place, the way that you’ve made my life a better life. And when those moments of doubt creep in, you just push them right out again and be Alex out loud. Never let anyone dull your sparkle. And never forget that we’re twins, TWINS, lalalalalala! I love you.

  My loving husband, Paul—if anyone in this universe or the next could possibly understand how difficult this book was for me to write, it’s you. Because you’re the only person who really knows me, who’s listened to my secrets and glimpsed the darkness inside. And though I know it must not have been easy, you’ve stuck by me through it all for over two decades. You’re the strongest person I know, my soul mate, my everything. I can never repay you or thank you enough fo
r being a pillar in my life. Never forget how very much I love you—through good times and bad.

  I may be a lot of things, but I am not my mental illness. I am, however, loved. But then, as Plato once said, “Love is a serious mental disease.”

  Thank you for reading. The world is a far better place with you—and me—in it.

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photo by Paul Brewer

  ZAC BREWER grew up on a diet of The Twilight Zone and books by Stephen King. He chased them down with every drop of horror he could find—in books, in movie theaters, and on television. The most delicious parts of his banquet, however, he found lurking in the shadowed corners of his dark imagination. When he’s not writing books, he’s speaking out against bullying and educating people on what it’s like to suffer from mental illness.

  Zac doesn’t believe in happy endings . . . but there are times when he desperately wants to. He lives in Missouri with his husband, two children, and their feline overlords. Visit Zac at www.zacbrewer.com.

  Discover great authors, exclusive offers, and more at hc.com.

  BOOKS BY ZAC BREWER

  Madness

  The Cemetery Boys

  The Blood Between Us

  The Ghost of Ben Hargrove

  THE CHRONICLES OF VLADIMIR TOD

  Eighth Grade Bites

  Ninth Grade Slays

  Tenth Grade Bleeds

  Eleventh Grade Burns