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I stop on the way to buy supplies. Whiskey. Cigarettes. A lighter. The basics.
I don’t think I’ve eaten anything all weekend, and don’t think I could stomach it, either. There’s a faint buzzing in my ears that I can’t seem to shake off. For once, I’m glad I don’t have a roommate. When I slam the door of the apartment shut behind me and step into the cold living room, I feel ready to shatter into pieces, and that’s not something I want anyone to see.
I turn on the TV, not even bothering to see what’s on, and unscrew the whiskey. Thus armed, with the bottle and my cigs, I step out onto the balcony and let the dark take me. This is where I’m supposed to be—floating in emptiness, blanking out my mind the only way I have left: drink, smoke. Rinse and repeat.
It’s going well. At some point, I blink my eyes open to find out I’ve slid down to the balcony floor, the bottle spilling whiskey on the floor and the cigarette burning a hole through my jeans to my knee. I throw it down and brush the hot ashes off me.
The smell of burnt flesh hits me, and I gag. The memory slams back into me—hands all over me, searing pain, gut-clenching fear. Hands bending me over, pulling my legs apart. A flash of white teeth, the red of burning embers in the dark. A filthy gag filling my mouth, stopping my cries.
Christ.
I gulp down more whiskey, let the soothing burn calm me. Fuck. With the pain of the burn, more senses return. I can hear someone pummeling on the apartment door. I try to ignore it, but the pummeling doesn’t stop. It goes on and on. It’s driving me insane.
“Zane.” Someone steps out on the balcony, and I jerk back, hitting my head against the balcony wall. The past blurs into the present, and I try to get away, but I’m cornered. I prepare to throw the bottle at the guy.
He squats down in front of me and grabs it from my hand. “Zane. What the hell, man?”
Oh shit. “Ash?”
Of course it’s him. Who else has a spare key? Next time I should padlock the door from the inside.
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet. Ash is strong. He trains more than any of us, and it’s a good thing, ’cuz my legs refuse to hold me. My balance is shot to hell, and we almost go down together, but in the last second, he manages to keep us upright.
“Dammit, Z-man. What have you done to yourself?” Ash drags me inside and drops me on the sofa.
I lean my head back with a groan. The room spins, so I close my eyes.
Ash mutters something more, but I can’t make it out. I want to sleep, but the burn on my knee aches, and my head is still too full of raw fear and ghostly pain.
“Here, drink.” Ash pushes a glass into my hand and glowers at me until I gulp it down.
“Ugh. This is water. Are you trying to kill me?” I cough and reach for the whiskey bottle he left on the table.
“Fuck’s sake.” Ash pries the bottle from my fingers and levels a laser-sharp stare at me. “Enough.”
He’s pissed. Of course he is. His dad was a drunk, and I shouldn’t push, but today I need to drink until I forget, and he’s not letting me, dammit. He moves away, taking the bottle with him. I should see where he puts it, so I can go get it later.
“The hell’s your problem?” I grumble as I attempt to put the empty glass back on the table. Not sure I’ll manage. The image wavers in my eyes.
“Are you trying to kill yourself?” Ash sits on the table in front of me, taking the glass from me. When did he come back into the room? I feel I’m missing chunks of time.
“A burn won’t kill me,” I slur, but the memory of the pain hits me, and I shudder, my whole body shaking. My stomach churns. “Shit.”
“Burn?” Ash leans closer again, and I lean back. Fucker should learn to stay out of my personal space. “Fuck, man, did you stab yourself with your cigarette?”
I feel panic setting in, my heart pounding in my chest. The smell of scorched flesh fills my nose again. “Jesus Christ. Can you…?” I gesture at the burn. Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard.
He seems to understand what I need, ’cuz he’s Ash, and he knows I can’t stand burns. “I’ll take care of it.”
He’s gone and back before I realize, holding a tube and a pack of gauze. Where did he get that? Erin, my fuzzy mind says. She must have left her first-aid kit.
Ash rolls up my pant leg and cleans the burn. Shit, it hurts like hell. Ash spreads some cream on the area and slaps a Band-Aid over it.
“Done. You’ll be fine,” Ash says. “Hey, Z-man, can you hear me?”
I nod, because I don’t trust myself to speak yet. I watch him as he puts the tube away and returns with a refilled glass of water.
“How’s your sister, man?”
