Page 26 of Antidote

They pull out of the driveway hastily, my mom speeding, and I grip my hair and scream. I scream so loud that one of the neighbors turns on his porch light and comes out. I kneel on the ground and pull at my hair. But I reassure him I’m alright, even if he looks at me like I’m insane.

I’m not alright.

Malia comes to my side and tries to soothe me, but I just push her away and run up the stairs again, grabbing my desk and flipping it over. I destroy my room—throwing my belongings against the wall and breaking everything in sight. She gasps when she catches up to me and sees the mess though she doesn’t say anything.

At least malia stays back, away from me. It’s all I could ask for, and thankfully, she knows me enough to know I need this. I can’t even think about what must be going through her head. She’s probably wondering why I’m destroying my room over my brother. Or maybe not. I guess any person would be distraught over seeing their brother overdosing.

My mom should’ve just called an ambulance.

They probably would’ve helped him faster with Narcan or something.

“Hunter!” Dad yells, and he sounds desperate. I close my eyes and groan, wanting to keep going, needing to purge this anger and hate and pain. Suddenly, he’s at the door. “There’s been an accident. We need to get to the hospital.”

“Accident?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and I turn around. He seems distraught, tears in his eyes. “Car accident. Your mom and brother.”

I feel sick, and suddenly, I turn around and hurl right there on the hardwood floor. Malia scrambles to rub my back, but I push her away, feeling gross. I straighten and wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, then rush to the bathroom and rinse my mouth.

Before I can think clearly, we’re in the car and driving to the hospital. The drive is silent, and there’s so much tension it’s hard to breathe. Is Ollie okay? Did he get hurt? Is he dead? Did they give him Narcan? My leg bounces as all these questions practically fly through my brain, and I can’t think clearly anymore when we pull up to the hospital.

Malia holds my hand tightly the whole way, and I want to shove her away. Instead, I breathe in slowly and deeply, my nostrils flaring. We finally park, and then we’re running, flying, to the entrance of the hospital. It’s all a blur after that. We’re directed to this waiting room with sterile white walls and green armchairs, and then a doctor comes in with a face that tells me he’s bearing bad news.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Hartman,” the doctor says, and I panic. No, no, no, no, no. Not my Ollie. “There’s no easy way to say this—but the crash broke your wife’s neck.”

Dead on impact.

We couldn’t save her.

She’s gone.

My hands tremble because, this whole time, I was so focused on him that I didn’t even consider the possibility that she could be hurt. How could I? She’s my mom. I could never imagine a world where she doesn’t exist.

My knees hit the ground as I wail, my hands finding my hair again. Malia is there in an instant, but she can’t soothe me. No one can. I’m gone.

And then I feel it, physically feel it.

The way my heart is cracking, breaking, shattering, splintering into little pieces.

Because I didn’t just lose her.

I lost him, too.

Nothing will ever be the same.

For even if I love him more than life, he did this. He did this to me—to us. And I can never be with him again. It would be a betrayal to my mom.

And that’s something I refuse to be.

A fucking traitor.

After a while, a nurse comes to get us from the waiting room and directs us to where Ollie is admitted. I practically speed walk there, ready to fucking kill him, but when I see how fucked up he already looks, my steps falter. My heart skips a couple of beats and then rearranges itself in my chest, and I breathe in through my nose slowly.

Everything disappears—everyone. It’s as if my dad and Malia don’t exist anymore. And when I ask them for a moment alone with him, they don’t hesitate. I don’t think Conrad is ready to face Ollie right now. I think he blames him for my mom’s death just as much as I do.

I sit at the foot of the bed and simply stare at Ollie. At the bandage on his head—the crusted blood running down his face. They didn’t clean him, and for one split second, that pisses me off. Then I remember what he did, and I sober up. I shouldn’t give a fuck about what happens to him anymore.

Ollie opens his eyes slowly, and he seems confused, but when our eyes connect, I show him just how angry I am. How much I hate him now. How he broke us, and how we’ll never be the same. How we’ll never have another shot because he ruined it. Once upon a time, I told myself I’d take him back if he got clean, but now? There’s no fucking way.

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