Page 72 of False Start
“That’s the thing about it.”Love,but I don’t clarify theitfor her, because I can only give her so much, and right now, I’m not sure how much I have left. “There’snothingthat makes it different. I want you, and that’s enough to make a differencefor me.” I don’t tell her that it’s the bestandthe worst part about love.
We have no choice.
She drags in a long inhale, so stuttered that I’m not sure her lungs can take in any more oxygen, but she does it anyway. The tears never dry. “I won’t stop.” She shakes her head.
“I can help you,” I promise her for the hundredth time.
“Don’t let me do this to you. I’m not worth it.” Her seams are unraveling, and she pulls each thread like it won’t make her smaller.
She’s ceasing to exist, and I’m starting to wonder if that’s the plan.
“Says who?” The way I shake her isn’t violent, but it’s enough to rattle her, and her eyes jar open a little.
“I’m not supposed to be here anymore.” Her body shakes with each painful word.
“What does that mean, Nia?” Maybe with enough clarity, I can get her through this.
“I just want to go home,” she sobs. She’s too high, and I’m not sure she’s fully aware of the words she’s saying.
“Where’s home, baby?” I ask anyway, remembering every time I had to talk my brother down when his high would turn dark.
Her face is pressed to my shirt, my fingers running through her hair in an attempt to soothe.
“Lonnie.”
It’s muffled, but I can hear it. It takes everything not to breakwithher, to not fall apart as well. Instead, I hold her and let her cry for as long as she needs. And then, I decide to let my brain run its course, every possible plan unfolding simultaneously at the speed of sound. I can’t catch up, can’t listen to my own thoughts coherently.
I still try, because home is no longer an option for her, not if her idea of home is six feet under in whatever version of afterlife Lonnie is kicking around in.
Life is for the living.
The same words invade my brain again.
Death is a starting point.
Death is a door.
Death is a starting point.
And here we are, gates wide open, waiting for the flood to come through.
If I can’t save her, she’ll wreck us together and lock the door behind us.
“Help me,” she finally begs, the words clear but still filled with her sorrow.
And that’s all it takes to seal my fate.
It’s almostsunrise when she falls asleep in my arms. I’ve already texted Freddy to call in for my opening shift at the bar today. I don’t know what to do, but I know I can’t leave her alone. I think about texting Stella, or Bae, or even Venice, but it doesn’t seem like any of them have a clue.
Nia’s leaving those closest to her in the dark, because it’s not a cry for help. She’s already decided on how this is going to end.
The thought makes me squeeze her tighter. I contemplate moving us to the bedroom, but I don’t shift. I don’t shift an inch, though I know she’d sleep through it. For the first time in three years, my brother passed through my mind tonight, and now, I can’t get him out. I think about calling, about sending a text, but I remember every previous time I’ve felt this way, the way hope painted a rainbow bridge to the idea that once I reached out, he’d bethere, waiting with arms open to be the hero I always needed. The hero I never had. The hero I was forced to become for myself.
It only takes twenty seconds into a phone call for that bridge to crack like fragile glass, for his words to turn into fissures that spread until nothing but puzzled fragments are left. A single step toward him shatters the entire thought. I don’t dial the number. I don’t text.
But in the back of my mind, I wonder if he’s still alive. If he’s still an addict.
If he thinks of me.
