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In my dreams, Della is lying lifeless on her bed, her wrists slit. She’s hanging from a rope on the ceiling, her face purple. She’s lying on the floor in a pool of her own blood.
And then it’s Nate on the floor, and Sydney on the bed, and Kash hanging, and I’m at the center of this quiet hurricane, the only one alive, the only one still breathing.
The only one to blame.
Stop, no, just stop, I tell my brain, my useless, stupid brain that keeps spinning off into these dark thoughts and obsessive loops. But it won’t stop. I bite so hard into my lip that I taste blood, and still I’m scrubbing, trying to get the stains out.
Everything’s stained, rusted, crumbling to fucking pieces. Everything’s falling apart.
I’m moving across the living room, cringing at the expanse of tiles left to be cleaned, when there’s a click behind me.
The lock on the door turns, and I glance over my shoulder with a frown, trying to remember if Della or Grandpa were supposed to come back home already, my sense of time warped.
The person standing at the door isn’t Della, or Grandpa. I stare, unsure of what I’m seeing. Hell, can bleach fumes cause hallucinations?
I sit back on my heels, the brush resting on the floor. “Nate?”
He’s staring back at me like he’s never seen me before. “What the fuck?” he whispers hoarsely.
My sentiments exactly. “What are you doing here? How did you get in?”
He’s still standing at the door, so still, as if he’s forgotten how to move. “I have your key, remember?”
My key. That’s right. Though Nate hasn’t used it once since I gave it to him, not until today, and last time he was in my apartment was a few days before he moved out almost a year ago.
He moved out, because of his dad. That’s right.
Oh shit. Coherent thought returns, and I feel the blood drain from my face. “Nate, are you insane? What if your folks see you? Your dad—”
“My dad isn’t home, I checked. I’m not a complete moron. West, what the hell are you doing down there? Get up.”
I glance down at the brush and bottle of cleaning liquid. “I can’t, I have to—”
“West, get off the floor. Jesus Fucking Christ. Your hands are burned. It’s the fucking bleach.”
“But—”
He hauls me to my feet. “You have to wash your hands before you get real damage. Come on. Oh man, your knees, too.”
I don’t know what’s happening, why Nate is here, but as he slips an arm around me, the pressure in my head eases. The loop, the claustrophobic, endless chain of guilt and panic is broken, its absence filling my mind with calm.
He leads me into the bathroom and makes me wash my hands under lots of cold water. Then he makes me sit on the closed lid of the toilet, wets the towel, and proceeds to clean up my knees.
I stare down at the reddened skin, the pain distant as he pats my knees one last time and gets up with a sigh.
“You should shower,” he says. “Get the rest of the chemical off of your skin.” He wipes his forehead with his forearm. “This is messed-up.”
“Yeah.” I realize I’m rocking and make myself stop. “I’m messed up. Whacked. Batshit.”
“You’re not… what are you talking about? It’s OCD. An anxiety disorder. Have you talked to someone about this?”
I stare at him. Shake my head.
“Of course not.” He sounds disgusted. “There are techniques that can help. Even
medicine. They say Zoloft can help.”
“They?”
