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That voice is familiar. Substance swims in my veins, my pulse like a heavy drum beat. I turn to the voice.
My body is heaved by strong arms that hold me close to his chest.
It’s Shade.
“Tiller. . ..” His voice is distant, but he helps me up. “What did you take?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, trying to pry one eye open. It’s hard, an effort I don’t have.
“You’re naked. I’m trying to get your fucking shorts on.” He taps my knee. “Help me out. Lift up. I need to get you to the hospital.”
I roll away from him, or at least I think I do. “Let me die.”
I think I say her name, but I don’t know. Maybe it’s my mind that won’t let it go. I close my eyes, and when I open them, I’m on the floor in our house and puking. Ricky’s there, holding a bucket. Scarlet’s rubbing my back.
“Jesus. . . .”
“What did he take?”
“Fuck.”
“I don’t know.”
“Should we call an ambulance?”
I moan, shaking my head. Let me fucking die. Make it stop.
“Are you all right?”
I nod. I’m fucked up.
“You need help.”
I shake my head. “I decide what I need.”
They stare. I’m talking, but the words aren’t coming out.
“I think we should call 911.”
I moan again. “No. . . ,” I manage to get out. They don’t hear me.
I’m not okay, but I know this feeling, and eventually, I’ll pass out and this pain will subside.
Ready for the tragic ending?
My life is insignificant.
Heavy, huh?
It’s the truth.
Kill the beast.
“I’m so sick of this bullshit! Fine, fuck you, ya stupid bitch.”
That’s the message he left me. Have you heard of that song “Jar of Hearts” by Christina Perri? Not only does that song play on the radio this morning, on two different stations, but I think she wrote it about me. And Tiller. She probably didn’t, but when you’re sad, every song is written about you and your life.
I gave Tiller the benefit of the doubt with the truck incident on the way home from the wedding, but this, I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. And not after the things he’s said to me. Or the things I said to him.