Page 88 of Emmett

I’m afraid that I killed him.

The words were so much more cruel than I’d intended to be when I spoke them; I think a part of me was accusing him of the things thatI’ddone, the things thatI’dbeen. If anyone was tragic, it was me. If either of us were desperate for the other to love them, it was me. If there was a parasite present…it was me. I latched onto him and drained something from him when I approached him in that washroom; and I just kept draining him, because it felt good and because he let me.

I’m two minutes away from his house when I reach his voicemail for the thirteenth time. My voice shakes when I speak and my knuckles grip the steering wheel as if it’s a lifeline.

“Pretty boy, please pick up.”

The SUV squeals to a halt on his empty driveway and I fly out, heading straight for the front door. My fist pounds against the panels of the door while I call out his name to no answer other than the muffled sound of barking from inside the house.

“Come on,” I hiss as I move toward the fence which separates his front yard from the back.

After vaulting over the sturdy vinyl, I let myself into the house using the spare key that he keeps hidden behind a planter near the back door – the same one that I’ve told him to move at least ten times.

I’m vaguely aware of the presence of a dog as I float through the house in a panicked search for Emmett; I think it bites me on the ankle. I check the bathroom, the bedroom, even his closet and garage before I move back to the main area of the house, the only thing remotely out of place being an empty beer bottle left on the coffee table and a stack of envelopes on his desk.

Slipping my phone from my pocket, I dial his number again as I exit the house, heading once again for my car. I’m not sure how many more calls I make or how many miles I drive before I find myself on a quiet one-way street lit only by two businesses and a few dim street lights, most of whichhave seen better days.

I’m about to call Emmett’s number again when I see his Mercedes, easily identifiable courtesy of the pair of bumper stickers he has on the back of it; symbols of those screaming bands that he likes to listen to, one on either side of the license plate. I’ve told him at least four times that they depreciate the value of the vehicle and I’ve told him even more times that they look tacky on a nice car, but I’ve never been so happy that he didn’t listen to me.

That relief is quickly extinguished when I step out of my vehicle to approach his. The air leaves my lungs as Emmett comes into view, his body sprawled out on the cold asphalt.

“Shit.” Dropping to my knees next to him, I turn his body and force him to face me, giving a gentle shake to his shoulder. “Emmett, get up.”

I pat his cheek and brush his hair out of his eyes.He’s so fucking pale. So cold. The only movement in his body is a shallow rise in his chest. I unzip my sweater and pull it off of me, wrapping it around his body instead as I pull him into my lap, and I reach for my phone to call for an ambulance.

Salt burns my eyes as I relay the address to the dispatcher on the other line and I bend to press my lips against Emmett’s too-cold forehead as my hand rubs harsh circles against the wall of his chest. His arms droop on either side of my legs, limp and unmoving like the rest of him. My eyes flick toward the glass door of the bar next to us, where I can clearly see several people standing around a pool table, each taking turns pulling back their cues and whacking the balls across the top of it.

They can see us.

Why aren’t they helping?

Why did nobody fucking help him?

“Come on, I’ve got you,” I tell him stroking his hair away from his face. Looking at the patrons inside the building, one of whom is now using their phone to take pictures of us, I scream, “Get out here and fucking help me!”

I beg and plead with Emmett, doing everything that I can think of to try and wake him up; I slap his face hard enough to redden his cheek, I shake him, I kiss him, I grind my knuckles into his chest with every ounce of force that I can muster.

When none of my efforts pay off, I make the sign of the cross as if on instinct and I hold tight to the crucifix around my neck – something that, for all of these years, I have kept close to my heart as a reminder of what I had lost, what I had come from, and the God who forsook me - and I do the only other thing that I can think of.

For the first time in twenty-four years, I pray.

Minutes feel like hours before the sound of a siren fills the street, followed by flashing red lights and a pair of medics spilling out of the doors of an ambulance. Each of them carry a small pack and they work quickly to pull Emmett away from me, asking him questions which he can’t answer while they assess him. I try to fill in the blanks, but the only things that I know are his name, his birthday, and that he’s allergic to penicillin and cats. One of the medics says something to the other before using a tool to shove a plastic tube into his mouth and down his throat before loading him into the back of the vehicle; and I think I might be sick.

I finally stand, heading for my car, which is still running. “I’m meeting you there.”

With a nod, the medic climbs behind the wheel of the vehicle and I watch as they peel away, taking my pretty boy and a piece of my heart with them.

Even without the water, he’s managed to drown himself.

He’s going to die.

He’s going to die, and he has no idea how much I love him.

•

I abandon my car at the entrance to the emergency room, landing at a check-in desk, and I drop my hands onto thecounter. “Emmett Fowler was just brought in. I need to be with him.”

“Are you family, sir?” The nurse behind the desk asks as she types something on the keyboard in front of her.