Page 1 of Outspoken

Chapter One

Amber

ONE YEAR AGO

THE MONITOR BEEPS A STEADY rhythm, out of sync with the deepwhooshof the breathing tube shoved down my brother’s throat. The hospital room smells funky, but at least he doesn't have to share it. It’s only me, an unconscious Brody, and all these damn machines.

I'm sitting next to his bed with my forehead resting on the bed rail. I nod off for a second and then jolt awake. This has been my cycle for the past two nights while Brody has been in a coma—my body won't rest more than ten minutes.

I hate hospitals because they fucking suck. Unless you're having a baby, being in a hospital usually means something awful has happened. It's like falling asleep in a nightmare, so of course I can't rest. Every time I close my eyes, I’m thrown back into that horrible fight with Paige's stepdad in our living room.

Paige, my bestie, had been living with Brody and me for a few months. I hadfinallyconvinced her to move in with us so she could escape her abusive situation with her mother and stepdad. While living with us, she had the freedom to be herself and was happier than ever—maybe a littletoohappy since she and Brody were hooking up behind my back. Whatever. I got over it.

All of our lives were looking up until her monstrous stepdad decided to get violent and come after her.

He broke down our door, aggressively barging in with a gun. I watched helplessly as Brody and the man fought. My eyes met Paige's terrified expression as she cowered near the couch, trying to hide from the gun her stepdad kept pointing in her direction.

I was frozen in the hallway, peeking out. I tried to move, but I didn’t know what to do or how to help. Should I have grabbed something heavy and started swinging? Would I have only gotten in the way? Brody seemed to be handling it, so I stood there like a statue, trembling and pathetic.

When Brody finally wrestled the gun from the man's hands, it slid into the kitchen connected to the living room. I blinked at the discarded weapon as our Vietnam vet neighbor, Frank, materialized near the front door with a rifle. He watches out for us, so he must have noticed the man arriving or heard him yelling.

Finally getting my shaky legs to work, I inched toward the gun on the cold tile and picked it up. I gaped at it. I had never shot a gun before, so all I could think was:What if I accidentally shoot Paige? Or Brody?I stood motionless in the kitchen with the gun in my hands.

I’m useless. Always useless.

Then everything sped up and slowed down all at once. As the man pulled a second gun from behind his back, aiming it at Paige, Brody lunged forward, using his body to block the path of the bullet. Paige screamed. Brody shoved the man away. Hard. Frank then had a clear shot and fired his rifle, killing the man instantly.

I screamed.

I screamed for my injured brother. I screamed because I had just watched someone die. I screamed at the 9-1-1 operator because what else was there to do?

Screaming is all I could do.

Freaking out is all I’m good at.

I'm still screaming—somewhere on the inside—because I can’t stop reliving that moment over and over. I can’t shake my overwhelming urge to drink—to smoke weed, swallow OxyContin, Vicodin, Codeine. Shoot me up with Morphine. Let me snort cocaine. I’ll fucking do heroin.I don’t care.I’ll take anything because I can’t handle this shit.

Just a few fucking days after I leave rehab for yet another fresh start, Brody gets shot. My other two rehab attempts—one at age 20 and one at 25—failed because I couldn’t handle typical twenty-something problems while sober. I’m currently 27 going on 28, and I’m expected not to abusenow? When my brother might die?

How do I handle this without drugs?

Brody needs to wake up and help me through this with his dumb grin and irritating voice. He needs to say, “Fuck. Stop spiraling, Amber. I’m fine. You’re fine.”

I hold his fat, sausage-like fingers and swallow.You better be fine. Just wake up, dummy. Please wake up.

I know I need sleep, but I can’t leave him. I won’t. I'll stay here so he has some company. It’s the least I can do. He put up with too much of my shit over the years, so there’s no way I’m leaving him alone when he’s in this state.

“I’m sorry,” I say, emotion clogging my throat. “I’m sorry, so please wake up.”

I’m sorry I backed your car into the garage when I was learning how to drive, and then blamed it on your friend.

I'm sorry I broke into your camper, got drunk and high, and then tried to fry eggs. The stove caught fire, and I don’t remember how I put it out. When you asked around to see who had burnt the camper's kitchen, I played dumb.

Forcefully taking deeper breaths, I close my eyes, knowing the darkness behind them will only cause bad memories to surface. But it’s hard to look at Brody in such a vulnerable state. He has always been the strong and capable one, yet now he's at the mercy of the machines keeping him alive. His skin is pale and his massive body suddenly looks so weak and fragile—deflated.

Behind my eyelids, I see the doctor I accidentally hit with my car when I was 18. I had just turned a corner and didn't see him—he popped into existence, out for an afternoon stroll with his dog. My lawyer assured me he was jaywalking, but how does that matter? I hit that man and his dog.Me.

Their bodies crunched against my car's hood. The man's weight cracked the windshield as I screamed and slammed on the brakes. I wasn't speeding, but it doesn't take much force to cause internal bleeding and broken bones—death. A car going just 35 mph is enough.

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