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A stillness falls over the room at his outburst—at those damning words, laid out raw—and my eyes widen.
A beat passes, and then all hell breaks loose as Mason roars and makes to pounce on Waylon.
Only he’s clearly more unsteady than I thought—weaker too—because Waylon easily side-steps the punch swinging his way. And Mason’s fist sails right through the drywall, wood and dust and paint chips exploding across the floor.
He falls to a knee, shoulders caved around his greasy head.
I can count each individual knob of his curved spine pushing against his ashen, sweat-slicked skin.
Footsteps pound up the stairs, and then Gavin’s there, taking in the scene.
Waylon mutters, “Fuck this,” and leaves the room.
Eyes burning, all I can do is watch as Mason falls back on his ass, and buries his head in his hands. He’s shaking all over, harder now, and he’s rocking, mumbling under his breath.
It’s not until Gavin kneels down next to him, that he lifts his head, and I can see the twisted, hateful version of him warring with the boy I once knew.
“Please, Gavin,” he chokes out. “Just one more. Please, please, it’ll be the last time.”
Gavin’s features are hard, unflinching, as he shakes his head. “No more, Mase.”
Anger rips across Mason’s face, but before it can consume him, he snaps his gaze my way, eyes widening like he just remembered I’m here.
“You…you have your meds on you, right? For emergencies. Th-this is an emergency, isn’t it?” His watery pale blue eyes plead with me, and everything in me grinds to a halt as what he’s asking for register.
Gavin cuts me a long, resigned look, and he shakes his head.
“P-please, Jeremy. Jer, JJ, please. I can’t breathe.”
I don’t even realize I’ve started walking backward, until my ass hits his dresser.
“Jeremy, give me a fucking Xanax!” he shouts.
“No,” I whisper.
His eyes widen, swirling with hurt and betrayal.
The world slants on its axis as I recall wondering why my prescription seemed lower than it should’ve been in recent months. I never counted my pills. Mom used to when I was younger, but now I keep them in my nightstand, or take them with me when I figure I might need them.
It’s been a stressful year. I didn’t…I just assumed I lost track…
Hell, I worried I was taking too many, even though I’ve always been careful. If I doubled up, it was only when I needed it, for days like today, when if it wasn’t for the Xanax, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have ended up with a razor blade on my bathroom floor.
How long has this been going on? Is that the real reason why he started sneaking over into my room at night? How many has he taken from me?
“I don’t have any on me,” I hear myself say. And the thing is…it’s not even a lie.
“Bullshit,” Mason spits. “You need them. Of course they’re on you.”
At his words—the way he says them—an ugly feeling rises—hurt twisted up with resentment.
He’s not wrong… I do need them.
But he’s also not right. I’m stronger than ever these days. If you could call apathy strength, that is.
“I took what I needed,” I say flatly. “And I left the rest at home.”
“You’re lying.” He’s shaking his head. “You’re always lying to me anymore.”
