He smiles, then hits me again with the bar, and I feel one of my ribs crack as the metal slams against it. It sucks the air out of me, causes blinding pain to erupt through my body. But I feel nothing. I'm numb. Dead.
I give up.
He tosses the bar to the side and rolls up his sleeves, switching to hitting me with his fists. And when he aims one of them at my head, I sprawl my arms and legs out to the side, making sure he finishes me off. Just do it. I'm done.
"You act like you want this," Donny says with eagerness and confusion on his face and then his fist collides with my cheek.
"Maybe I do," is all I say, the taste of blood filling up my mouth. I do--I know I do.
"God, you crackheads are such worthless pieces of shit," he says with a smile. "Nothing to live for. No one to care whether you live or die."
He says it like he's not a crackhead himself and I wonder if he is, or if he just deals, sells shit to people, helps fuck up their lives for cash. I wonder if he has something to live for. Someone who cares about him. What would that be like, to have someone, like that, like I did once with Lexi?
Or Nova. I blink the thought from my head and try to force it out as he moves to hit me again, with a look on his face that makes me wonder if he's going to kill me.
Good, I think, yet for the briefest of moments I feel conflicted. I'm not even sure where the feeling stems from. Myself or thoughts of Nova. Or the simple fear that this could be it--that this time there's going to be no ambulance to show up and revive me. Paranoia sets in.
What the fuck.
"But I'm going to let you live," the guy says as he swings his fist down to strike, anger burning in his eyes, which are bloodshot. He's high and I know there's little control inside him, that even though he says he's going to let me live, he could easily take it one swing too far and probably wouldn't even realize it until it was too late. "So you can tell your little pussy friend that just took off that he better watch his back."
He slams his fist into my ribs again and the pain erupts through my body and I want to shout at him to not do me the favor of letting me live. To finish me off. But instead, as he brings his arm up to hit me again, I do something I wasn't expecting. I get up and run, like a fucking wimp, running away from death, running away from what I deserve.
Fuck, what am I doing? Why didn't I tell him to finish me off? He probably would have if I'd made him angry enough. But instead I ran. Chose life. To come back to this? It's time to nail the damn coffin shut.
"Quinton, are you okay?" The sound of Nova's voice jerks me back to the present and I get angry because she's fucking with my head. Even after nine months, she consumes my thoughts almost as much as Lexi. She makes me hesitate with stuff and I don't like it.
I look at her, getting pissed off because she's here when I thought she'd let me go--she should have. Plus, there's barely any drugs left in my system and I feel like I could fucking claw someone's eyes out.
"Nova, just go away," I say, moving my legs off the mattress. My knees are stiff and my joints ache. I'm also missing a shoe and my foot is cut up and scraped raw on the top.
Nova sits down beside me, shaking her head. "Not until I help you...Quinton, I want to help you."
For a second my heart skips a beat, but then the scar on my chest burns, telling my emotions to shut the hell up. I need to stop reacting to her and I need to get a line in my system so I won't even feel any of this--feel her.
"I don't want you to help me." Trying to appear more confident than I feel, I push to my feet and stand up. My knees promptly begin to wobble, but I fight the compulsion to fall to the floor. "Now I'm asking you to go."
She glances at her friend, who briefly scrutinizes me, seeing what I really am, what Nova won't see. "We should probably listen," she says to Nova, apparently seeing something she doesn't like, and I wish Nova would get on the same page.
Nova smashes her lips together so forcefully the skin around her mouth whitens. "No." Her eyes lock on me. "I'm not going until you let me help you."
I start to spastically shake even more and try to blame it on the fact that I need to do a line, but it's not just that. It's her. Her eyes. Her words. The simple fact that she's right in front of me, just within arm's reach, yet I can't touch her. I'd be leaving my own self-made prison if I did. I'd be trying to escape from the bars I built around myself for a reason, made of guilt, the foundation formed by a promise I made to never forget the love of my life, whose life ended because of me.
"You can't help me," I snap. "Now just get the fuck out before I make you get out."
She flinches as if I've slapped her, yet it seems to bring more determination out of her as she scoots closer to me. "I'm not going anywhere, so you might as well let me help you at least clean off those cuts you have all over you--they're going to get infected."
The idea of her taking care of me like that both pleases and appalls me. I want her to stay, which means there's only one thing I can do. Fighting the impulse inside my body to grab her and crush my lips against hers, I get up and limp toward the doorway, dodging around her friend. I head across the hallway to Delilah's room. The door's wide open and the room is unoccupied, which is what I'm looking for.
"Where are you going?" Nova chases after me, but I slam the door right in her face. Like the asshole that I am. I lock it and she starts to bang on it, shouting for me to open up, but I ignore her and flop down on the dirty mattress. Then I reach down between it and the wall where I know Delilah hides her stash and take the small plastic bag out. There's barely enough for a line in there, but it'll have to be enough for now, at least until Nova stops banging on the door.
I can hear her talking to someone on the other side as I scrape the remaining crystal out of the bag and onto the Tupperware bin beside the mattress. It sounds like she's crying, but I could be wrong and honestly I don't care. I only care about one thing, knowing it'll make everything feel better and then everything--the fight, Nova--won't matter.
There's a pen on the bin and I pick it up as someone knocks on the door. They say something but I don't hear them as I lean down and suck the tiny white crystals up my nose, feeling the gnawing ache in my body slowly evaporate.
"Quinton, please open up," Nova says through the door with one soft tap of her hand. There's a plea in her voice that rips at my throat, but the white powder entering my system quickly heals it. Sure it's only temporary, but all I'll need is another hit once the wound starts to open again. I'll never have to feel again if I follow the process.
Nova says something else, but I cover my ears with my hands and ball up on the mattress until her voice fades out.
And I fade with it.
Chapter 6
Nova
I can't stop crying. The tears started flowing the moment Quinton locked himself into that room. I didn't know what to do, so I tried everything I could. I begged. I pleaded. I sobbed as I pounded on the door. But he wouldn't listen and it hurt me to think about him broken and beat up on the other side, doing God knows what while I couldn't do anything to stop him, all because of a door. A stupid door with a lock that I couldn't break.
Finally Lea dragged me out of there and I can barely remember what happened over the next few hours, other than that I ended up back at her uncle's house in the guest room bed with a blanket over me and I feel so exhausted.
"We should have never gone there," she says as she lies down on the bed beside me. "That was bad, Nova. Like really, really bad."
"It was the ugly part of life," I agree, my tears subsiding. "But it doesn't mean we shouldn't have gone there...he needs my help, Lea."
"He needs more than your help," she replies, tucking her arm under her head. "He needs to go to a hospital and then rehab or something."
"I know that." I rotate to my side and stare out the window at the stars in the sky and the view calms me. "But I don't know how I can get him to do that, so I'm doing the only thing I can think of right now."
"I'm worried about
you," she admits. "I don't think you should go back there."
"I have to," I whisper. "Now that I've seen him...seen how he's living, seen the condition he's in, I can't walk away." I thought maybe my feelings for him would have changed, that maybe last summer was just an illusion built around weed, but it's not. And I realized that the second I saw him lying in that bed, and when he kissed me, half out of it, it only heightened my feelings. And I didn't see Landon this time, I just saw a broken guy I wish I could just hug better.
"Nova, please just think about it," she says. "Think before you go back. Promise me you will. I think you're going to get in over your head...and those papers I was reading...helping meth addicts is complicated. You need to understand what you're getting into and if you really want to get into it."
"Okay, I promise I'll think about what I'm doing." But I already know what the answer will be. I'm going back because I'm not ready to give up on him, not when I've barely gotten started. I have to figure this out, somehow.
"And read the papers," she adds, fluffing the pillow and getting situated.
"Okay," I promise again, wondering just how much insight papers from the Internet can give, but I guess reading them won't hurt. At the moment I'll do anything I think can help.
It gets quiet and I close my eyes, ready to fall asleep, wishing upon wishing that I could see a way through this.
*
"If you were stuck on a desert island," I say to Landon as he draws line after line in his sketchbook. I scoot forward on the bed, pretending I'm scratching my foot, when really I just want to be closer to him. "What's the one thing you'd want there with you?"
He frowns down at his drawing, a self-portrait, his face half shadowed, his hair shorter on one side, and his cheekbone shaded to look sunken in so it looks like he's wearing the mask from The Phantom of the Opera. "I'm not sure...maybe a pencil." He stares at the pencil in his hand and then looks at his drawing. "But then again, if I couldn't have both a pencil and paper, there really wouldn't be any point to taking one and not the other." He sets the pencil down on the paper and rubs some smeared graphite off his hand with a thoughtful look on his face, while I pretend not to be sad over the fact that he didn't say he'd want me on the island with him. "But then again..." He looks up at me and his honey-brown eyes burn with intensity. "Maybe I'd just take you." He strokes his finger across my cheek, leaving a smudge there I'm sure. "Having you there could have its perks."
I crinkle my nose like it's an absurd idea when really my stomach is fluttering with butterflies. "How would that be a perk? I'm not resourceful in intense situations...I'd probably do more harm than good."
He shakes his head, tracing his finger up my cheekbone to a lock of my hair. He twirls it around his fingers as he sets his pencil and sketchbook to the side. "No way, Nova Reed, you'd be a lifesaver."
"How do you figure?" My voice sounds breathless and I hate it because it gives away everything that I'm feeling--the effect he has on me. And even though we've kissed and touched each other, I'm still not certain where he stands--how he feels about me.
"Because...you save me every day," he says.
My forehead creases as I stare into his eyes, searching for a sign that he's joking, but he looks so serious. "Save you from what?"
He pauses, searching my eyes, but for what I'm not sure. "From fading."
His words hit me square in the chest and I open my mouth to say something, but no words come out, just like always whenever he says something so sad. Finally I manage, "I still don't get what you mean."
"I know," he says with a sigh, unraveling his fingers from my hair. "It doesn't really matter...I was just trying to say that if you and I were trapped on an island, I know you'd end up being the one to save us, because I know you'd never give up and it'd make me not want to give up either."
I'm not really sure if it's the answer I want to hear or how it connects to me stopping him from fading in the real world. I could ask him, but he silences me with his lips, kissing me softly, but with passion behind it, gripping my waist. And before I can think too deeply about what he means about wanting to give up, he gently pushes me down on the bed, lying on top of me. He covers my body with his and I melt into his embrace as he kisses me until I've forgotten about everything except him and me and the brief warmth engulfing our bodies.
*
May 17, day two of summer break
Nova
When I open my eyes, the sunlight blinds me and I'm sweating from the heat. No one bothered to close the curtain last night and without any mountains around, the heat of the sun is intense. I throw the blanket off and blink as I gradually sit up. I'm so exhausted that all I want to do at the moment is give up. Curl up in a ball, throw the blanket back over my head, and sleep until the next day, maybe longer. But I can't help thinking about the dream I had last night. At the time I didn't think anything of it, and honestly I'm surprised I even remember it. I know you'd never give up and it'd make me not want to give up either.
It hurts, thinking about Landon, because he did give up and leave me. In the end I wasn't a lifesaver like he thought. I was just a distraction from his pain and I didn't save him. I don't want to be a distraction this time around. I want to do things differently. But how? How can I make sure Quinton doesn't end up like Landon?
After thinking about it for a while, I do something I haven't done in a long time. I sneak out of bed, grab my laptop, and go out onto the sofa to watch the video Landon made right before he ended his life. I'm not even sure what the point is. Whether I just want to see him again, or analyze the video. Watching his lips move, the pain in his eyes, the way his inky black hair falls across his forehead, it takes me back to that night when I woke up on the hill. Just after he made this video, I would find him, hanging from his bedroom ceiling. Music would be playing, like it is in the video. I often wonder if, had I woken up just a little bit sooner, I would have caught him making the video, instead of right after he hanged himself. Could I have stopped him? Was he waiting for me to wake up and stop him, but I took too long and he gave up?
Finally I shut off the video. I have such a fucked-up mentality over his death, but since there will never be any answers, there will always be a ton of questions.
I swallow hard and cup my hand around my wrist, remembering the one time I almost gave up, too, almost left the world, left my mom to find me bleeding out in the bathroom with a ton of questions she'd never have answers to, like Landon did with me. Part of me really wanted to end it all, to stop burying the pain inside me, but part of me was scared of the what-ifs. What if I did go through with it? What if I just ended my life? What would happen to the people who cared about me? My mom? What would I miss? It was one of the darkest times in my life and it's permanently branded on my body, a scar put there by my own hand, reminding me never again. I'll never give up again.
When I return to the bedroom, Lea is still asleep on the other side of the king-size bed, her face turned toward the opposing wall, her breathing soft, and the blanket is pulled up over her. I quietly put the computer away and get ready to go, not wanting to wake her up and argue with her about going back home. Plus, I need to talk to Quinton alone. I get dressed in a pair of red shorts and a white shirt and pull my hair into a ponytail to keep the heat from melting it to my skin. Then I read through some of the papers Lea printed out that talk about helping a drug addict: intervention, talking to the addict, getting him into rehab. They're very technical and most are like clinical instructions on how to handle drug addicts. What I don't get, though, is where the information is on how to deal with their mood swings. Or the hopelessness that comes with trying to make someone see that he needs to get better, trying to find the right thing that will bring him back. Or how about how to get his family to come down and support him, because that's what he really needs? He needs people who know him and care about him, like I needed my mom when I decided I wanted to heal.
I don't know much about Quinton's family other than that his
mom passed away when he was born and even though his dad raised him, it was pretty much like he raised himself. I wonder if I could find out more about his dad...maybe he'd want to help Quinton. I mean, he is his son and I know if my father had been alive when I was doing drugs, he'd have done anything to help me. But I can't count on it, because not all people are like my mom and dad and would do anything for their child. Still, it wouldn't hurt to look into it, if I can get someone to either give me his father's phone number or tell me his name and where he lives so I can get him.
I write Lea a note, telling her that I'm going out for coffee and will be back soon. I hate lying to her, but at the same time I hated seeing how terrified she was last night. I put the note on the pillow beside her, then write on the back of my hand no regrets. It's something Lea and I say to each other all the time and it's going to remind me today not to regret anything I do, right there on my hand, just in case I even think about trying to take something that I'll regret taking later.
I tuck my phone into my back pocket and head out to the car, locking the front door behind me on the way out. It's so hot I feel like I'm melting into a steaming puddle, the heat leaching the air out of my lungs. I walk swiftly to the car and hop in, but curse when the black leather seat burns my legs. I start up the engine, then find Quinton's address on the GPS, along with the nearest coffee shop, because I'm going to need a caffeine boost if I'm going to make it through this.
"You can do this, Nova," I say as back down the driveway and turn onto the road. I continue to repeat the mantra in my head all the way to the coffee shop. I order two coffees, not even sure if Quinton drinks coffee or how he takes it, but I make a guess. Then I crank up a little "Help Me" by Alkaline Trio and drive to Quinton's apartment, trying not to get too upset at the sight of it in broad daylight. But I can't help it. The sun only makes it look more tragic and fills me with even more hopelessness, but I still park the car. Then I take my phone out of my pocket, flip the video recorder on, and let out a deep breath before I aim the screen at myself.