Page 27 of Unholy

“No.”

“You need to step back and stay away from her, Tristan. This isn’t healthy.”

“Hey, Doc? Fuck off, man. I don’t need you telling me shit I already know. Lock me the fuck up on the fifth floor, and let’s get this over with.” I ignore the rest of the shit that leaves his mouth because, frankly, Fuck him.

After the other Doc gives his approval, I’m moved to the psych ward. It’s not like I haven’t been here more than once. I’m put into a room, and my fucking arms and legs are strapped down so I can’t try and kill myself again. My stomach hurts where they performed the surgery, but I welcome the fucking pain.

I close my eyes and try to keep from thinking about the girl. Thinking about the way she looked at me and how she yelled atme. I can’t be with her. The Doc is right. This is going to kill me, and while I’m not opposed to going straight to hell, I know my mom would lose it. Not that it should bother me. I’ve never cared much before, but I do love my mom.

I tip my head back and try to sleep, but hearing people screaming and groaning all fucking night does little more than drive me a little further into my head. If they think for one fucking second keeping me locked up in this hell hole is helping me, they’re dead wrong. All it’s doing is making me feel worse.

Chapter 12

Ash

Dad and Amy went on their honeymoon in Spain. I’m happy for them and today Tristan comes home. I informed his Doctor I would be the one picking him up, and they said that was fine since he’s an adult.

I step into the basement to get his things in order when I see the painting on the easel. Is that? That can’t be me. I walk over and run my fingers over the angel he’s painted with my face. I swallow hard as I take it in. It’s beautiful. I’ve never seen anything as beautiful as this. Knowing he wouldn’t want me to see it, I flip it around so the back is facing out. Then I finish picking up his room before heading out to pick him up.

I’m ushered into a waiting area when I arrive. When they wheel him out, I’m confused. He’s not alert. He’s in a wheelchair, not even walking.

“What’s wrong with him?”

“He’s on a lot of medication right now. It’ll wear off. Here’s his prescriptions,” the woman says, handing a bagful of bottles. I look at them and then back at her like she’s insane. That’s a lot of meds for one person.

“He needs to follow up with his regular doctor in three days,” she explains. I nod my head before I step behind him and push his near lifeless body out of the room and into the elevator.

“Tristan?” I call his name, but he doesn’t respond and I can understand why. He has to be overmedicated. I shake my head, push him out when the doors open, and go out to my car. I helphim into the front seat before returning the chair and coming back. His head rests against the window, and his eyes are closed.

I get in and start the car, driving us back to the house. When we arrive, I help him out and inside.

“Do you want to stay on the couch?” I ask him, not knowing if he’s going to make it down the steps. He shakes his head, and I do the best I can to help him walk down the stairs without both of us falling. I’m basically dragging him to his bed and helping him lay down before pulling the blankets over him. When I start to pull away, he grabs my wrist and whispers.

“Stay.”

“That’s not a good idea,” I tell him.

“Please.” With that one word, that’s all it took. Just hearing him say please in that sad tone has broken me. I nod my head even if he can’t see me and crawl onto the bed next to him. I know he did what he did because of me, and I shouldn’t be here, but how can I not be here?

His hand finds mine and he intertwines our fingers, holding on as tightly as he can. I’m not sure what to do now. I try to sleep, listening to him snore lightly next to me. I know the medication has to be taking a toll on his body, as well as the surgery he had.

I finally doze off and when I wake up, he’s staring at me. I gasp and start to shift away, but his hand lands on my hip, keeping me in place. Neither of us speaks as he moves in closer, pressing his lips to mine. I let him kiss me and start to kiss him back. This is wrong. I can feel it in every single bone in my body. I shouldn’t be here, in his bed, kissing him. But why does it feel so right then? Why doesn’t this feel wrong?

When he stops kissing me, and his hand begins to move over me, I pull away.

“Be with me, Ash.” His words send heat coiling inside me, but I shake my head no.

“I can’t do that.”

“Do you have any idea how much I fucking need you, Ash? How much it hurts when you walk away from me?” Tears immediately fill my eyes as I shake my head.

“Don’t say that.”

“It’s true. It’s like you’re ripping my fucking black heart out,” he adds. I think it’s just the medicine talking, but he looks like himself this morning.

“I can’t be what you need,” I tell him.

“You don’t know what I need.”

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