Page 139 of My Unfinished Heart

What I get instead is “Don’t Panic” on repeat.

The lyrics of the opening verse chill me to the fucking bone.

I move one step closer and push the door open.

From where I’m standing, I can’t see much. An iPhone is next to the sink, playing the music. Flickering candles on the counter give the illusion of a light being on. The mirror reflects a closed shower curtain.

“Archer?” Tristan asks, coming into the hall to find me rooted to the spot outside the bathroom.

His face goes from hopeful to terrified as he puts together in his head what I can’t bring myself to face. He pushes past me, slamming the door open wide.

My knees weaken. I put a hand on the frame to stay upright.

The shower curtain swooshes along its rod, then Tristan lets out a moan—guttural and deep. It’s the kind of sound you feel more than hear. I feel it in the pit of my clenching stomach.

He sinks to his knees and reaches into the blood-filled water surrounding the lifeless form of my baby brother.

“Call an ambulance!”

Clouds move into my brain. My thoughts are thick things, hiding in the fog. My legs are caught in quicksand. To move would be dangerous. Moving might get me killed.

“He's still alive. Archer—call a fucking ambulance!” He grabs a black t-shirt from the floor and a hand towel from the rack near his head. “Call 9-1-1. Archer, please.”

He’s shouting at me. It’s the only reason I hear him.

I dig my phone out of my pocket and dial the emergency number. While I wait for an operator to take my call, I watch Tristan wrap my brother’s brutally gashed-open wrists. Connor is limp, and the time between one breath and the next grows longer and longer. “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?”

“My brother slit his wrists.” If there is any combination of words in the English language that are worse than those, I don’t want to know them. I tell the operator the address when she asks.

“I'm dispatching an ambulance now. Does he have a pulse? Is he still breathing?”

“I don’t know,” I say, but my voice is gone. It has no sound.

I don’t hang up, but I put the phone on the counter because I can’t talk anymore.

“Help me,” Tristan says to me from the floor by the tub. “We need to get him out. He’s freezing. I don't want anybody to see him like this.”

There are a couple of things happening in my body. I’m about to throw up, and I’m about to pass out. The combination of the two has me gripping the counter’s edge and leaning over the sink.

I hear Tristan’s frustrated cry, but it’s muffled by the thrum of blood in my ears.

“Archer, please, please help me…” he begs with a sob, his voice broken and desperate.

I force-breathe through my nose. Long, deep breaths I blow out of my mouth. I want to help him. I just need a second. Just a couple of seconds.

What I see when I pull myself together enough to look again is so fucking horrible, I have to be dreaming. With no help from me, Tristan heaves my brother out of the bloody water. Connor’s body drags like dead weight and thunks onto the bathroom floor, his legs landing at odd angles, and his head lolling to the side, eyes open like doll’s eyes. Black like holes.

Tristan dries him off as much as he can, then covers him with another towel.

And then…

Then…

Tristan drags himself onto his knees, places the heels of his stacked hands on the center of my brother’s chest and pushes down. Hard.

“Connor, I’m here. Everything’s gonna be okay. Help is coming. It’s gonna be okay. Connor, don't you fucking leave me.”

Tristan sobs once, choking on the air.