Page 26

NINETEEN

WESLEY

“Can’t wait to get back home. Need something good to take the edge off,” Vic said, scratching and rubbing at his arms.

“Me too. Fuck, the studio session was long as fuck.”

Vic grins at me. “Yeah, but we got the fucking deal! I still can’t believe it. Being around high-tech systems to record our music? I never would have thought four poor bastards like us would make it.”

He’s right. I figured we would play small clubs and maybe score some local gigs that paid for our drugs—if not drugs, then booze to celebrate a good show.

Like me, Vic had a fucked-up childhood. Mom ran out, Dad used him as a punching bag. He got into drugs to escape like I did. But unlike me, his dad didn’t do anything else but beat his ass every other day. He didn’t get taken advantage of, so I never told him, Kas, or Mitch everything.

That’s a secret I’ll never tell a soul.

I throw my arm around his shoulder, eager to get home so we can get high. “Me either, man. We’re living the fucking dream. ”

When we get inside, I immediately pull out the pills and coke I have stashed between the springs of our mattress. We all share a small one-bedroom apartment, Mitch and Kas sharing the room while me and Vic sleep on a mattress in the living room. We didn’t have much money to afford anything else.

Vic clicks on the television and turns it to one of those channels that plays music all day and cranks up the volume. I come back to the table with our supplies and separate the coke into lines as Vic sings softly beside me.

He could have been the lead singer, but he said he never wanted to be that much in the spotlight. I shouldn’t like it, but after not having attention for more than half of my life, I eat that shit up when the spotlight is on me.

Once the lines of cocaine are separated, Vic hands me a cut straw, and I snort a line, groaning in pleasure when it hits my system. I pass him the straw as I relax into the chair. The high is good, wiping my brain and letting me see the lyrics of the song for the track we were laying down today.

“Fuck, I got it!” I exclaim, rising from my chair. “We gotta drop the rhythm guitar, and you have to sync your vocals with mine. That’s the only way it’ll work.”

Vic snorts a line and tips his head back, eyes closed tight. When he’s sure he won’t waste his high from sneezing, he looks over at me thoughtfully. Or as thoughtful as he can get while we’re polluted. “I like it. Let’s try it out.”

At the top of our lungs, we sing the song, jumping on the bed and playing air guitar. To my intoxicated ears, we don’t sound half bad. I’m eager to return to the studio to test out the theory when I’m not so fucked up.

We go back and forth, finishing the drugs we have until we’re fucking exhausted and the high has our limbs thrumming but tiredness dragging us down .

I swallow the last pill and lean back in the chair. “Fuck. We need to score more before tomorrow,” I say. I want to climb under the blankets and crash and worry about scoring our next high in the morning.

“I got us covered,” Vic slurs and reaches into his pocket. He pulls out a baggie of brownish powder that I recognize as heroin, a needle, and a lighter.

Heroin has always been a hard no from me. My mom and Perry used it as much as they could, which is why she had to sell herself so often—because they always needed that high. I told myself I would never use it. I would never turn out like my mom.

“The fuck is this shit?” I ask, gesturing to the paraphernalia in his hands. “No needles. You know that.”

He makes a pssh noise. “You’re fucking tatted from head to toe. You don’t mind needles.”

“Yeah, for tattoos. But I’m not shooting shit into my veins. And you’re not either. Fucking get rid of that shit. We can score pills or some weed, but that’s it. Got it?”

Vic looks at me for a few seconds, his pupils dilating. Finally, he shrugs and puts the stuff back into his pocket. “Whatever. I’ll get rid of it tomorrow. I’m too tired to move right now.”

I blow out a sigh of relief, glad he sees things my way.

“Fucker!” I push him in the arm, but I’m so tired it has no effect on him.

“You almost blew my high.” I chuckle as I get to my feet and walk over to the bed, collapsing on the hard surface.

“Wake me in like three days. After those studio sessions and that stupid fucking cardio workout for breath control, I’m exhausted. ”

“So am I. I’ll join you in a bit. I just have to….”

I didn’t hear the rest of what Vic had to do because I was asleep between one beat and the next .

My night is shattered when a heavy thud sounds in the room, and Kas starts cursing up a storm. “What the hell, you guys? We can hear the music down the block! Turn—What the fuck! Vic! Wake up, man! Wesley! Wesley, help!”

I’m snatched to wakefulness by the panic in his voice, so I surge to my feet, and I’m making my way over to Vic before I even give my body the command.

Then I freeze in my tracks.

Vic’s eyes are wide open, staring up at the ceiling with a glassy expression. Vomit coats his chin and the front of his shirt, his mouth gaping. There’s a small pool of blood behind his head, probably from where he toppled out of the chair and hit it on the ground since he couldn’t break his fall.

The worst part is the needle sticking from his arm, the plunger fully depressed.

“Fuck,” I cry out, dropping to my knees beside him. “What did you do, Vic? What did you do?”

I sit bolt upright in bed, sweat dripping down my face, mingling with my tears.

The nightmare was so vivid. That floaty feeling from doing the drugs, collapsing on the bed, waking up to seeing Vic’s face, the smell of his piss and vomit…

guilt settling deep within me that it was somehow my fault. Too fucking vivid.

I frantically yank off the covers, scramble out of bed, and put on my workout clothes, needing to get out of my head.

Once I’m dressed, I rush to my fitness room and unfold my mat and sit atop it.

I breathe in deeply through my nose and blow it out of my mouth, trying to calm my frayed nerves.

I go through pose after pose, breathing and stretching, but nothing works.

Not even the large window across from me that offers me a great view of the forest behind my house.

I keep thinking about Vic and why I didn’t take that heroin from him.

The only answer that comes to me is fear.

I was afraid that if I touched it I would turn into my mom.

I thought I’d want to start shooting shit into my arms and letting men fuck me just to get a quick high.

I wanted nothing to do with it, and because of that, one of my best friends used irresponsibly and paid the price.

I knew better than to let him keep those drugs on him, but I did, trusting he’d get rid of them like he said he would.

“Dammit!” I shout, dropping to my butt when warrior pose does nothing to calm my anxiety.

I press the heels of my hands into my eyes until starbursts flash behind my lids.

Fuck, this is hard. The weight of guilt is heavy.

I have a lot of regret in my past, but besides how I treated Jaxon, not taking the drugs from Vic weighs on me the most.

Vic’s dad had already died when he overdosed, we had no clue where his mother was, and he had no siblings or other family that gave a fuck about him. He just had me, Mitch, and Kas.

And I’m the reason he’s dead.

I climb from the floor and snatch up my phone, dialing Mitch’s number. It’s four in the morning, but I can’t wait to talk to him. If I thought Kas would answer, I’d?—

“Wesley?” Mitch asks drowsily when he answers the video call. Behind him a woman with blonde hair snores loudly. It’s a wonder he was able to sleep with that chainsaw behind him.

A chuckle bubbles up my throat, and some of the unease leeches from me. “Sorry to call this late. I was…. I needed to talk to you.”

“All good, brother. What’s up?” The phone moves as if he’s getting out of bed, and the scenery behind him changes. He sighs when he sits on the couch. “You good?”

“No,” I answer truthfully. “Vic was on my mind… the night…”

Mitch looks somber as he nods. “Yeah, that was fucking brutal, man. Hold on, let me patch Kas in.”

I crack a smile that feels almost natural. “I’m surprised you and that fucker aren’t together now.”

“Nah, he went back home to see his girl. Hopefully he answers his phone.”

Thankfully, he does, and I’m greeted with his scowl of irritation. “This better be good,” he says in a gravelly voice tinged with sleep.

Guilt chokes me up again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. It’s not important.”

His expression morphs as he sits up. “You alright, man? If you need to talk?—”

Mitch cuts him off. “He was thinking about Vic.”

Kas hisses. “Fuck, he hasn’t crossed my mind in a while. I don’t like to think about him, you know? After how I found him. It really fucked me up.”

“It’s my fault,” bursts from my lips. “I should have?—”

“We’ve been over this,” Mitch says. “You gotta remember, we knew Vic longer and better than you, even though y’all were closer. He tended to do that shit a lot—saying he wouldn’t do something and end up doing it anyway. Unless you tied that fucker down, he would have found a way.”

Kas chimes in. “Once he set his mind to something, he was going to do it, with or without our approval. I hate to say it, but he probably would have snuck off to shoot up if he hadn’t tried it that night. And we might not have found him for days or weeks.”

“If I hadn’t been using, I would have?— ”

Mitch does this growling thing that has me clamping my mouth shut. “Stop it. I swear to fuck if I hear you blame yourself again, I’ll come to Tortiseville and strangle you myself.”

I smile through the tears threatening to fall. “Tourneville.”

“Don’t care,” he says, though he cracks a smile. “We knew the both of you got high. Me and Kas got high too. We just didn’t think he’d OD. Have you been beating yourself up all these years about that?”

I shrug.

Kas sighs. “Don’t. There was nothing we could have done about it. I talked to my therapist about it and?—”

“You have a therapist?” Mitch asks.

Kas gives him a meaningful look. “Yeah, I started seeing them when Wesley went to rehab. I’ve been unpacking a lot during our sessions, and one thing he told me is I can’t change the habits and behaviors of adults.

I wanted to save both of you, but I couldn’t, no matter how hard I tried.

I can’t carry that around. So I’m going to tell you the same thing, Wesley.

You can’t carry the weight of what Vic did. It’ll wear you down.”

He’s right. A long exhale leaves me and with it goes most of my guilt.

I haven’t brought up Vic’s death with Mirrie yet because I was afraid it would bring up the same feelings I’m having right now, and I’d spiral.

“We never blamed you either,” Mitch says, more serious than he usually is. “We all lost him. You’re not more responsible because you used to get high together. Vic would do shit and worry about the consequences later. That time, he couldn’t.”

He says it bluntly, but that’s how I needed it delivered. I needed to hear him say that it wasn’t my fault and that they didn’t fault me.

“I love you guys,” I say.

They both look shocked but don’t give me any shit about it. “Love you too,” Mitch says.

“Yeah, me too.”

Something compels me to say, “I never wanted to try heroin.” My voice is low and subdued, but I push words past my clenched throat. “My mom…she was a heroin addict.”

Both Kas and Mitch look at me in shock. I only told them I moved with my dad because of shit not being good at my mother’s house. But I think now it’s time I’m honest with them about my past. They’ve earned the truth.

Clearing my throat, I say, “When she and her boyfriend didn’t have enough money for drugs, she’d sell herself. And while she was doing that….her boyfriend would rape me, saying that she was too tied up to pay him any attention.”

The alarm that crosses their faces almost has me clamming up, but I keep talking. At least they’ll understand why I left Vic to his own devices instead of getting high with him.

“I moved to California because I almost killed the man after he tried to rape me one night. They found my dad, and he came to get me. I told myself I’d never fucking touch heroin because I didn’t want to end up like either one of them.

I used other shit, and that was bad enough, but when I saw it in Vic’s hands, I couldn’t… .I…”

My throat is so tight I can barely swallow.

Kas curses. “I’m sorry, bro. I really am. You’re a fucking survivor though. I don’t blame you one bit for wanting to dull that pain.”

“Is your therapist helping you with that?” Mitch asks. “ And where is that asshole that hurt you like that? I just wanna talk to him.”

A laugh bursts from my throat, even though there’s nothing funny. It’s more from relief than anything else. Relief that they don’t judge me for not standing up to Perry before.

I run a hand through my hair. “He’s dead. Long dead. Killed himself when he was sentenced to more than seventy years in prison. My mother is dead too. And she left me her house. I want to bulldoze that motherfucker. You two feel like flying in for the main event?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Just tell us when,” Mitch says, and Kas agrees.

We sit on the phone and shoot the shit for a bit before hanging up.

I feel lighter than I have in years. The guilt is still there, but it’s only a twinge of what it was before. My friends know my past and didn’t look down on me.

Even though it’s the early morning hours, I can’t go back to sleep.

I lie on the mat on the floor and stare at the ceiling.

I could continue with yoga, or I could go for a run.

Neither of those options sound appealing, since I’m a little worn out from my nightmare and talking to my bandmates. Maybe later.

Then my eyes snag on the guitar case with the Fender that Jaxon gave me all those years ago. I was supposed to move it into the spare room, but I didn’t have the energy.

I want to open it and play it so badly, but I don’t think it’s smart. Music would take me down a path I don’t want to go down.

I sit up, my eyes still on the case. Feelings swirl around in my chest, some yanking me one way and others pulling me in the opposite direction .

No, music didn’t hurt me. Music saved me. Writing lyrics and singing were what helped me cope. When I moved to Washington, playing the guitar at Jaxon’s house helped me forget about my shitty home life.

Music saved me.

With resolve—though my hands shake terribly—I open the case and pull out the guitar. I find the amp and plug it in and play Lana’s Melody. Then I start to sing, writing a song to those who gave me a safe place.