Page 96 of Ghosts Don't Cry
“I brought you something to eat.” She holds up a wrapped sandwich. “You didn’t go to the cafeteria.”
“I can’t stay.” The words come out rough. Moving hurts. Breathing hurts.Everythingfucking hurts. “Got stuff I need to do.”
She stands, and takes a step toward me. “Ronan? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” But the room is spinning, black spots dancing in front of my eyes. I grip the shelf beside me, hoping it’ll keep me upright. “I just … need to go. Don’t come tonight. I won’t be there.”
“Why not? Did something?—”
I’m gone before she can finish, moving faster than my body wants. The hallway tilts. I make it to the bathroom just in time to throw up. The heaving sends more agony through my chest.
I can’t stay here. I won’t make it through the afternoon. History is next, and Edwards will notice there’s a problem.
The walk back to the factory nearly kills me. I have to stop twice, leaning against buildings while the world spins. My visionnarrows to a tunnel. My lungs can’t pull in enough air. By the time I reach the door, I can barely stand.
But then, when I do get there, I think about Lily. She won’t listen to me. She’ll show up. I need to be somewhere else tonight, so if she does turn up, she won’t find me here. I turn away from the entrance and make a slow trek across the parking lot. There’s a smaller building nearby, not as easy to hide inside as the factory, but it’s sheltered and she won’t find me there.
I make it just inside the entrance before I collapse. No position helps. I can’t lie on my back, my stomach crushes my chest, my side causes shockwaves along my ribs. I can’t get enough air. The world tilts and spins even with my eyes closed.
But I have to stay here long enough to make sure Lily doesn’t see me.
Fever sets in as night falls. My skin burns while the rest of me shivers uncontrollably. At some point I find my way back to the factory, while pain becomes a living thing, clawing through my chest with each breath. The walls waver and dance in the darkness. Shadows move where nothing should be. Time loses meaning.
Morning brings worse pain. The bruises have spread, turning my torso into a map of black and purple and yellow. Each breath comes shorter than the last. I try using snow that fell last night, packing it into a torn shirt and pressing it against my ribs. The cold helps for a few minutes, then the pain returns doubled.
I don’t make it to school.
By noon, I can’t get enough air. My lungs won’t expand properly. Each attempt sends daggers through my ribs. The fever burns higher, turning the world hazy and strange.
I know the signs. I’ve seen them before when Rick worked Mom over. Broken ribs are bad enough. But that wet feeling, that shortness of breath, the bubbling sensation with each exhale? That’s a punctured lung, maybe internal bleeding.
I can’t go to the hospital. I have no insurance, and I can’t risk anyone finding out where I’ve been living. They’ll call CPS, and I’m not going into the system. But I know Lily will be wondering why I’m not at school, and even though I told her not to come last night, nothing will stop her from coming to check on me today.
A memory teases the edges of my mind through the fever haze. Mom’s hands shaking as she counted pills. The prescription pad she stole from a clinic. Teaching me how to forge the details just in case, her voice slurred but insistent.
Sometimes you need help, baby. Sometimes the pain is too much to handle alone. I’m teaching you this so you can survive. You understand? You have to survive.
I push the thought away, but an hour later, when breathing feels like drowning and black spots dance in my vision with every heartbeat, it comes back. All I can think about is the nurse’s office at school. The unlocked cabinet. The prescription pads I know how to use. The signatures I memorized. The DEA numbers Mom made me repeat until I knew them by heart.
It takes three attempts to stand. Five minutes to make it to the door. The factory spins around me as I force myself to move. Just getting to school feels like it might be impossible. But the alternative will be worse.
I can’t let Lily find me dead on the floor.
The halls are empty when I finally reach the school and creep toward the nurse’s office. Classes are in session, and no one is around to see me. The nurse is not here, thankfully, and the cabinet sits there, door slightly ajar. My fingers shake when I reach for it, trembling so much I can barely grip the handle, while Mom’s voice issues instructions in my head.
Watch the format. The doctor’s name goes here. DEA number here. It has to be right or they’ll know.
I sit at the desk, pen held awkwardly in fingers that won’t quite cooperate, and I force my hand steady through sheer will. It has to look real. One mistake and it all falls apart.
Hydrocodone. Two tablets every six hours.
The lowest dose that might help. Thirty pills in total. Not enough to raise flags.
This is wrong. Iknowit’s wrong. I shouldn’t be forging prescriptions and stealing medication. These are all the things Mom did that led her down the path she couldn’t climb back from.
But I’m dying. And I can’t let Lily find me like this.
It takes me an hour to get to the pharmacy across town. They don’t know me here, and the pharmacist barely glances at the prescription before filling it and handing it to me.
