Griffon hands me the hoodie, already decked out in his, but he pushes me down with the clear message to fucking sleep. I don’t think I have much choice at this point. I need to recharge, or I’ll have no fight left. And that’s all my life is, an endless string of battles.
“Okay, but promise me you’ll pack?” I say with that hint of a question in my voice. He nods. “I’ll just rest my eyes for a minute or two, and then I’ll help you. At least we’ll be together at North Point, okay?”
He pauses. There’s a decision made, and I want to ask him about it, but my brain’s covered in fog, and understanding my own thoughts feels like trudging through mud. A cord of tension wraps around my chest, mimicking that fucking straitjacket. My fingers curl with the need to punch something. He’s not okay, and I don’t know how to make him okay.
But I can rest for a bit. Maybe that will lessen his concern.
I don’t even have to close them; I just have to stop fighting what they want to do, and my lids drop. But I’m aware of the rustling beside me, the sounds of Griffon packing. I strain my ears to hear them all while my body gives up, sleep taking me under for moments at a time, shadows gathering at the edges of my mind.
The shadows threaten to consume me, all except one. The largest one. He eats all the other shadows, so I can fucking sleep for five minutes.
That’s how I know I’m dreaming—I’d never trust anyone or anything long enough to protect or help me.
My eyes open with a jolt, my sixth sense knows something’s wrong before I’m fully awake. Sitting up, I scan the room through blurry eyes. Griffon’s gone. A quick check out the window tells me it’s still dark. I couldn’t have been out for long. His suitcase is closed, and there’s a note on top.
Don’t worry about me anymore.
What the fuck? I spring up, the Shadowridge U hoodie on top of me falls to the ground. The door to Griffon’s ensuite bathroom is closed, but there’s no light from under the door. I charge in.
My heart stops.
I can’t breathe.
Blood. So much fucking blood floating atop the water’s surface. He’s wearing that fucking Shadowridge hoodie like it’s a final message.
Rushing toward him, I scoop him out of the water enough to check his pulse. It’s weak, but there’s still a fucking pulse.
“Help me! Somebody fucking help me!” No one responds. I don’t want to leave him, but I have to. I sprint to the door ofGriffon’s room, lean my head out, and scream into the hallway. “Someone call a goddamn ambulance!”
Rosaline, who I guess didn’t leave after all, pokes her head out of her room, face going white. I look down. I’m covered in Griffon’s blood. She pulls her cellphone from the pocket of her sweatpants, no longer wearing that too-tight black dress.
I race back to Griffon. He’s a heavy fucker—still laden with hockey muscle even though he’s been out of play for a year. But I manage, lifting him out, spilling blood onto the floor. I need to put pressure on the wounds.
“Hang on, Griff. You’re not fucking dying on me today, do you hear me?”
A faint moan sounds from his chest. He’s still in there. He might not want me to save him, but I couldn’t give a fuck. As long as I’m around, Griffon stays.
My eyes flicker between the monitor and Griffon. The steady beep pattern’s still strong, and his lungs rise and fall with breath. So long as those two things are happening, I can relax a little. I can’t, however, sleep, and my body fucking needs it.
The doctors assured me several hundred times that he’s going to be fine. And sure, physically, he’ll survive this, but what’s going on inside his head?
This gives Father real grounds to put him in a psychiatric facility under the guise of helping him, when really it would be an excuse to lock him away. Father’s “problem” and his “embarrassment,” hidden away. I’d be all for checking him into aplace to help him if that’s what he needs, but unless I can be one hundred percent certain I can get him out again, I can’t risk it.
One thing’s for sure, Griffon would never have done this if it weren’t for Father. He was trying to protect me.
That look in his eyes, that one that had my alarm bells going off, I wasn’t sure what it meant, but now I know it was this decision. I cover his hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over his knuckles. “It’s not your job to protect me, Griff.”
The door clicks, and Father enters. His nose wrinkles. It’s the first time he’s laid eyes on Griffon since this happened. He shakes his head.
“He’s weak, Ryan. He’s not made for this life.”
Grandfather made my father watch as he killed the man he loved, and then made him marry our mother because she came from what Grandfather considered a better family.
Sometimes I wonder if Father survived that day.
When he says shit about what it takes to be made for this life, he believes it. He thinks giving me an easy life will kill me, and he thinks that because Griffon can’t endure a hard one, we should do what’s kind and get rid of him.
Griffon’s the only one of us that looks like her. He looks nothing like our father. Does that make him hate Griff, too? He never loved our mother, but Grandfather forced him to keep her.
