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I can see the thin slats that made up the old stage floor. I can see the way the blood came, dark ink with a gelatinous quality like blood always has.
Cold sweat pops out all over me. I can feel the gunshot in my bones. I can see the blood. I hear the screaming. My screaming.
I don’t know how I got home, and I don’t like that. I don’t know why I got Dad’s bat. Something’s wrong with me. It’s not the normal stuff, the floating feeling. It’s like…I’m not working. My brain. I feel…off. Like time is off.
I know how I ended up in Leo’s house. Though I don’t remember it. I was at a bar. Drank the whole place dry. I think my friends took me to the strip club.
What day is it? How long has it been since I’ve seen Elise?
I want her. I need her. Need to hold her. And when I do I’ll probably cry like a damn baby, but I don’t care. Thinking of that almost makes me cry right now. I focus on my shoulder.
I must have hurt the collarbone pretty bad, because the pain is nothing like before. Every time I move my upper body, I feel sick from how much it hurts.
I eat a cracker, drink the ginger ale, and then have to get up to get some water from the bathroom faucet. Distantly, I try to think of something smart to say to my pals. Giving them a hard time for serving up some ginger ale in a kid cup. But I don’t care enough. There’s like space between me and everything. Like a solid layer of…I don’t know. It’s kind of a silence. Maybe like a blanket.
I take the pills they left and get some clothes from Leo’s drawer and sit down on the old brown love seat. I spot my sling around the bathroom doorknob. Makes me feel sick just thinking about moving my arm into the thing.
But I will. I need it because I’m going into Manhattan.
Gotta be at my best. Like a joke almost, my hands start shaking. My heart races. I feel sick and spacey, like I can’t focus—not even on Elise.
It can’t be real.
My chest tightens as my blood roars in my ears. Tony shot him. I was right there, and he fucking shot him right in front of me. I let it happen. Did I stop him? Steal the gun away? No. I let him shoot my dad and now my dad is dead. My dad is dead and Tony killed him. I watched Tony kill him.
Some sound comes from my throat. I think a scream. It sounds like someone else. I’m on my feet now. I need to walk. I don’t know where. I put on the black basketball shorts I’m borrowing from Leo. Then I’ve gotta do the shirt. It hurts so bad, I think it kind of grounds me.
My eyelids feel heavy, my eyebrows sort of heavy—like my brain is falling forward. I wish it would fall out.
I work my arm into the sling, gritting my teeth as I see black spots for a second.
“Jesus.”
Then I look around. I don’t know what for. Keys. My keys are on the table by the note. I look for a pen, find one, and scrawl a new note.
Catch ya later. I’m okay. Borrowed some clothes, Leo. –
I feel warm and sweaty, hyper-focused in a drifty way as I reach for the door to Leo’s bedroom. Pain meds working. Dad’s drugs. I gotta say I understand the appeal. I walk to the train and I can do it, although my arm and my mouth and head hurt. It’s just hurt instead of agony.
Although there’s plenty of that on the inside.
I try to not think about it, but I’m on the train, and I feel weird and sweaty, and when it comes into my head, I don’t believe it: Tony shot my dad. I didn’t think that it was real but it was real. Now it’s done, and I just can’t accept it.
I get up and pace the train car. I shouldn’t because it hurts. I stand by a window, looking at myself in the glass.
Why would Elise want you?
Then I think of something that hasn’t crossed my mind till right now: How will I tell Mom? And when?
“You’re so fucking stupid, Luca.”
“When I’m dead, it will be your fault. You drew his attention! This is all because of you!”
Rage burns through me. It wasn’t my fault, some part of me argues. But it is my fault; I was there, I’m eighteen years old—today. I should take responsibility. I wasn’t able to stop Tony. He got what he wanted, and I lost my dad.
The only thing that’s bigger than my fury is the awful, clawing pain in my chest. Wanting to go back. But I can’t. I can only go forward.
