Page 55 of The Unravelings

“I feel like you’re overly eager to shoot new people.” JJ raises a brow. “You can’t kill them, Mack. They have to live, or we get in trouble. Trouble that Franco can’t bail us out of.” He gives him a pointed look, but is met with a scoff.

“Where’s the fun in not shooting our recruits with paintballs? And what’s a little death? Pfft. It could be worse; we could have vests on and blanks in our guns. Now, that would be a fun time.” Mack makes finger guns at us and stands, dismissing us as he puts his grapes in the fridge. “Now, I’ve gotta shower and get to class. See you assholes later.”

With that, he stalks off up the stairs, and the bathroom door slams shut as the water kicks on.

“We’re going to have to watch him,” I say, rubbing my chin. “He’s getting too excited and too volatile.” A-fucking-gain. Ever since Olivia left, he’s been teetering in dangerous territory. He’s one second away from ending up in prison. A place that Franco may not be able to help him get out of.

JJ snorts, staring off toward the stairs. “I agree. He’ll end up murdering someone if we don’t keep him on a leash.” He shakes his head.

“You really think he’d go that far?” I question, eyeing JJ.

“I don’t want to find out,” he says solemnly. “I need him to be okay.”

I blow out a breath. “He’ll be okay, Man.”

JJ nods, stands, and shuts his laptop, tucking it under his arm. “Well, I’ve got class.” Without saying another word, he climbs the stairs, and the door to his bedroom closes softly.

Then, it’s me, standing in the empty kitchen, listening to the hum of the refrigerator and the beating of my heart.

Tonight will be a challenge all its own. I’m thankful to have my two best friends by my side, though. At least we’ll be in good company as we suffer amid Greenwood’s elite.

And whatever Franco has in store for us.

16

Wilder

Heat billows through the ceiling vents, cascading down my back and making sweat form under my clothes. I sigh, wiping my forehead with my free hand as I sit in an uncomfortable chair opposite my mother Alicia’s hospital bed. She sits on the edge, looking more worn out than usual. More distant. Less of herself peeks through every day.

Her tiny frame sways slightly as she sits, fiddling her thumbs together. “They’re stealing my stuff,” my mother whispers, eyeing the door with wide, frantic eyes.

Today, she looks older. Her face is more drawn, and wrinkles mar her cheeks and the corners of her mouth, pulling her lips into a constant frown. Confusion lives behind her eyes. A permanent fixture in her gaze. It’s worse than it was when she was doing drugs and staring at the wall for hours on end. More permanent than before.

Dementia is stealing my mother away from me day by day. Taking everything she once knew and erasing it slowly. A sad decline into a darkness I don’t understand.

But then again, she was never truly my mother. Never a woman who would walk through the door with a smile on her face, excited to embrace the two little boys waiting for her. Sure, there was a small window where she was happy and thriving. But that was before. Then, the thriving turned to starving and spiraling, and aching for the only thing that could make her whole—drugs.

Mack and I didn’t matter. Work didn’t matter. The house didn’t matter. Food didn’t matter. Only the heroin she could inject into her veins, or the drugs her then-boyfriend could help her smoke. She had her favorites, but wasn’t picky. Whatever took away the sadness and pain she felt on the inside. That’s all that mattered.

“They’re stealing everything, Jackson,” she whispers again, her lips pulling down further. She runs a shaky hand through her graying hair, proving how far gone she’s become.

I almost startle at the sound of my first name. Some days when I come, she’s having a bad day and can’t remember who I am or why I’m there. Sometimes I’m Jackson, her son. Other times, I’m Jameson, her high school boyfriend who broke her heart by running away with her best friend after getting her pregnant. Or I’m Nick, the man who ruined her life and introduced her to drugs.

No matter what face I wear, I’m always here to visit through the good and bad times. No matter how much I don’t want to.

“What did they take this time, Mom?” I try to inject a caring tone, but it doesn’t seem to matter to her. She’s absolutely positive someone is sneaking into her room and taking things, or moving them around to confuse her.

But it’s all a part of her disease, eating away at her brain.

I roll my unlit cigarette between my fingers as she inspects the open door again with a cautious glare. Like she’s waiting for the boogeyman to jump out and take more things right before our eyes. There’s no one there, though. Not today, at least.

“Those nurses!” she hisses, pointing toward the open door with an accusatory tone. “They’re coming into my room and taking it all!”

I sigh. “What are they taking, Mom?”

Jewelry has been gone for many years. She sold anything for money. There’s nothing of value in here that belongs to her. Only clothes, toiletries, and a TV mounted to the wall. Besides, the nursing staff here has been nothing but accommodating.

My mother wobbles as she gets up from the edge of her hospital bed and goes to the wardrobe filled with her sweaters, slacks, and other essentials.