Toxic

Chapter Fourteen

I was dead. No. Seriously. I’d puked so much that my body was starting to shut down. I wanted the light damn it! Where the hell was the light in the tunnel? I could have sworn someone said death felt a hell of a lot better than this. —Gabe H.

Gabe

Moaning, I flipped over onto my stomach and reached around for my cell phone. My hand hit a lamp instead.

I tried opening my eyes, my cell fell to the floor, making a soft clunk against a red area rug I knew didn’t belong to my room.

I rubbed my eyes. Colors blurred and ran together. Nothing floated into focus. I shut my eyes again and rubbed them for a few seconds. When I opened them a second time, I wished I had kept them closed.

Time machines. Someone really needed to get on top of that.

“How do you feel?” Wes asked, sounding calm as a cucumber. He was sitting directly in front of me. Arms crossed, and looking pissed as hell. How could he look both calm and pissed at the same time? Did he have some weird split personality that only manifested itself when someone pushed him over the edge? I’d never seen that look on his face. I hated it. I hated me.

“I really wish you would have just finished me off last night,” I grumbled.

“Trust me.” His jaw flexed. “I wanted to. Then I realized that’s exactly what you wanted, so I chose not to beat your sorry ass and stayed up all night with you while you hallucinated about Bambi, told me stories about starting drugs at eight, and then finally — just when I thought you were going to pass out — you puked all over my bathroom — and me. Safe to say we no longer have any secrets after showering together, and if you ever, and I do mean ever, touch me there again I will end your life. Got it?”

I groaned and nodded, then winced because it hurt so much I thought I was going to puke again.

“Something you wanna tell me?”

“No offense, Wes, but I really don’t want to talk right now.”

“Funny, because I didn’t really want to watch my best friend try to commit suicide last night, yet, here we are.”

“You’re pissed.” I felt like crawling into a dark hole and staying there. Letting down Wes was like… true agony. He was the one person I admired. And I’d failed him.

“As hell,” Wes said in a deadly voice. “How did we get here? A few months ago you wanted a new life — you weren’t in a dark place anymore. What happened? I know the last thing you want to do is talk about your feelings — but, shit, man… you didn’t just fall off the wagon. You made a purposeful jump and flipped off the world in the process.”

I swallowed as tears threatened to pour down my face. The choking sensation returned, the same sensation I got when the guilt wrapped itself around me. It was like an old blanket, my comfort, every time I took it off, I was so freaked out it was going to come back that I just put it back on anyway.

“Nothing.” I shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.”

“You haven’t done drugs in years.”

“Things change.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t in fact done any drugs, though I had been tempted for a few brief seconds.

“You haven’t drank in years. You’ve been sober.”

“Right.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“No. But you will anyways.”

Wes sighed, his face turned a bit pale as he leaned forward on his knees and whispered, “Do you want to die?”

I couldn’t answer. I could only nod.

“Why?”

“Because she didn’t, and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into tears and then reached into my pocket and grabbed the locket, throwing it across the room, praying it would break.

Praying the hold she had on my heart would end.

It didn’t.

I fell from the bed to my knees and rocked back and forth, the tears were dried up — they always were.

“Gabe…” Wes gripped my shoulders. “You need to talk to someone — you need help.”

I shook my head. What I needed was music. What I needed was—

“Guitar,” I said in a foreign voice. “Get my guitar.”

Anyone else would have questioned me. Wes didn’t.

Within minutes he was back in the room, guitar in hand.

I didn’t say anything. I sat on the floor, put the guitar in my lap and started singing.

Seconds later I was focused — calm.

My therapy was music.

But I’d pushed music out of my life — because it was another reminder of my sins, my regrets, so I felt guilty when I needed it, because what did she have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t deserve comfort.

Two hours of playing music and my fingers hurt; they weren’t as calloused as they used to be.

I set the guitar down and stared at the floor.

Wes sat down next to me. We both stared at the wall.

“Gabe.”

“Yeah?”

“Tell me about Ashton Hyde.”

I froze and then did something I never thought I’d ever do to my best friend. I lied and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”