Page 41 of Strange Lad

Twice, I’ve tried to tell Phoenix.

Once, a little over a year ago when I knew if I didn’t do something, I’d kill myself.

And once more, eight years ago, when I actually did try to kill myself.

Both times, I wasn’t important enough to listen to. Both times, he left me alone with my demons. I glance back at the bar, knowing I need to leave. This isn’t the answer, but fuck, it feels like it might be. Just a taste. A single moment where I’m utterly numb. A blip in time where I’m not reminded how broken I am.

“Don’t do it,” I tell myself, but get out. “Go home,” I try again. My legs keep striding forward. “It’s not too late,” I whisper and open the door.

Icontrol my actions.

“Hey, hun, what can I get you?” the bartender asks me.

Sweat forms on my upper lip as I stare at one of my old vices. No one knew that I drank. They all assumed I just did drugs. I dideverything.“I shouldn’t be here,” I whisper, clenching my hands over my thighs.

She studies me for long seconds, then leans her elbows on the bar. Her honey-brown hair falls over her shoulder. “How about a glass of water? It’s warm out.”

I nod, thankful she doesn’t pry.

A minute later, she slides the water over to me. I take a shaky sip, feeling my restraint crumbling as I glance back at the bottle of Jack Daniels on the shelf. “Are you alright?” she asks.

No. No, I’m not alright. Again, I nod.

“Let me know if you need anything.”

I need to leave.

Get the fuck out of here.

Any of those bottles would do, honestly.

My throat dries out just thinking about it. The water is forgotten as I stare and stare, wetting my lips. Just as I part them to call her back over and order a drink, my phone goes off.

Ratt’s Round and Roundblasts through my pocket.

Fuck. Jorge is calling. I pull my cell out, debating what to do. His face lights up the screen, a selfie he took specifically for his contact ID.

I stare at it so long that the ringing stops. A second passes, and it starts again. It feels louder, like his urgency for me to answersomehow amplifies the volume. I slide the answer bar and place the phone to my ear.

“Oliver,” he says carefully. He doesn’t usually call me by my full name unless it’s serious.

I don’t say anything because guilt cripples me.

“Talk to me.” Some country song plays through the old jukebox in the corner, and some patrons laugh down the bar. “Oli,” he pleads. “Please, beautiful.”

My eyes flutter shut at the pet name. He’s never called me that before, and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. I feel so ugly. So fucking disfigured and broken. “There is a reason why we have our locations shared. Can I come get you?”

“Yes,” I croak.

“Wait outside for me, okay? I’ll be there soon.”

“Okay.”

“Hey,” he says a little firmer. I don’t reply because my eyes are locked on the alcohol again. “Listen to me. You don’t need it. Youdon’t need it.”

“What if I do?” I whisper.

I can hear a door shutting over the line, then his breaths. He’s running to his car. That’s how worried he is about me. “You don’t. I promise you.”

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