Page 23 of Bathed in Blood

“I’m coming in if you don’t open the door!”

My fist is numb from the banging, my head throbbing from the music blaring. It’s been constant this week, drowning out the sound of his groans and retching as he struggles through withdraws, but neither of us had the balls to ask him to turn it down.

My footsteps are heavy as I stalk to the kitchen, jerking a butter knife from the drawer. We’re both too old for this shit. I’m too old to be living at home, forsaking a true college experience, commuting over an hour and a half to school because Mom can’t help but enable him. All he needs to do is show uplooking haggard, spitting some shit about being hungry or owing someone money, and she forks over what she has.

Which isn’t much anymore.

Online shopping is more exciting than watching your only son deteriorate, engaging in a several years long suicide, more interesting than watching your daughter walk around the house like an anxiety riddled poltergeist. A house that used to be home, one that held so many smiles growing unfamiliar and cold when nothing even changed. The furniture is the same, the well-loved lazy boy with a rip hidden behind a throw blanket that always hangs over the back. The kitchen cabinet has a dent in the wood from Lewis’ skateboard years ago. Stickers are still fused to the walls of my light pink bedroom. I put them there in middle school. Nothing about the house is different. It’s the lives that filled it that soured. My hand twists the handle, working the butter knife into the mechanism, something I’ve done so many times by now that it’s easy. Far too easy.

When the door gives, the musty air hits me all at once. Dirty socks and cheap body spray. “Shit, would it kill you to crack a window?”

Lewis is lying in bed, his arm draped over his face, shaggy blonde hair matted to the pillow. I only allow myself a few seconds to glare at him before stalking over to his computer. My eyes roll to the back of my head so hard, I damn near hemorrhage as I close out the music, then the still-open porn behind it.

“Lewis, let’s go now!”

That strange tightness in my chest returns when he doesn’t move. Like every worst-case scenario, I kept myself awake with suddenly became real. “Lewis?”

His skin is palled, clammy, his eyes as far off as I’ve ever seen them. I jerk his covers off him, my heart dropping at the sight ofvomit on his sunset orange sheets. “Hey!” My hands are frantic as I shake him, tears filling my eyes. “Mom!”

He’s always been so much bigger than me, even now. He’s heavy as I jerk him up into my arms, not giving a damn about the vomit I’m being smeared with. “Mom, help me!”

Every video I’ve ever watched to prepare me for this moment evades me, my own vomit creeping up my throat as my little brother makes a sound more fitting to a zombie than a human. “Mom, please! Get my bag! Get the Narcan now!” I pinch his cheek roughly, so hard that I’m sure it’ll bruise. He gurgles, milky foam leaking from the corner of colorless lips.

Please, please.

Mom is frantic when she finally enters the room, all but throwing my bag at me as she dissolves into sobs. I barely recognize her as the strong, independent woman who worked two jobs since the time I was two.

Lewis drops from my arms as I empty out the contents, my hands trembling as they find the nasal applicator. “Call 911!” I scream at her as her crying grows louder, tilting his head back before pushing down on the plunger.

“Please, please, please, please,” I mumble as I wait, rubbing at his chest, my heart thudding painfully in mine like it's trying to work for the both of us. When he comes around, it’s all at once. He lurches up so quickly, he headbutts me, retching.

“Yes, he’s up now!” Mom’s voice filters in as I rub my brother’s back and arms, trying to get his attention.

“You’re okay, you’re okay.”

I don’t know if I’m telling him or myself as his warm colored eyes turn on me, finally registering his surroundings. “What the fuck?” he mumbles, looking more irritated than anything.

“You overdosed, Lewis! I just had to give you fucking Narcan.” My voice is shrill even to my own ears, but holy shit, I can’t breathe.

When he tries to stand up, I scramble. “No, you need to sit down until—”

His hands brace on my chest, keeping me back. “No, Lana, I don’t need to do shit. It’s your fucking fault this dumb shit even happened!”

“Lewis, knock it off. This is serious!” Mom yells, still sobbing.

Lewis shoves me, hard. I’d never realized before how gentle he’d been, how much he held back each time I tried to stop him from leaving. My back collides with the metal display shelf, knocking the breath from my lungs. Our eyes only meet for a moment, and for a moment, I think he might stop. He might say sorry, but he doesn’t.

Then, he’s gone.

This time, I don’t run after him.

By the time daylight streams through the heavy curtains, Christian hasn’t returned. As it turns out, after years of constant company, silence is deafening. It feels less like the gift I thought it would be and more like something being inflicted upon me—a slight, a punishment for a crime I can’t identify. My head is light from my back-and-forth pacing. Christian’s books are all pulled from their shelves, some replaced with the spine facing out. Most of them are still littering the ground. I had intended to just fill the space my nightmarish thoughts were taking up but messing up his room felt…good. For once, I didn't think I would get hurt for doing something I wasn't supposed to. I had no reasonable explanation for feeling that way, only that none of the brothers had ever held me like that, not even Vince. Being consumed by him might be something I could get used to.

When the key turns in the door, my heart lurches into my throat, threatening to suffocate me. My feet edge towards the bed, muscle memory demanding I go there, knowing that’s where I’ll end up, but I don’t. Relief hits me like a whip as Christian’s wavy, dark hair comes into focus. Imagine that: feeling relief at the sight of someone holding you against your will. I remember reading a true crime book years ago about some creepy fuck and his wife who took a young girl. In the end, she defended them at the trial meant to vindicate her. Stockholm syndrome, they called it. I didn’t understand it then, couldn’t imaginewantingyour abuser, until Christian. His veins strain against bronzed skin and his lips couldn’t be soft, yet I know they are.

He looks exhausted. Dark circles only seem to enhance the effectiveness of his brooding green eyes. His dress shirt is rumpled, but the stain on the collar catches my attention.Blood. When his eyes command mine, it seems to exhaust him further.

“I see you’ve made yourself acquainted with my bookshelf.”

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