Page 35 of That One Moment

Glow – Livingston

Troubled Waters – Alex Warren

Last Call – Jamie Miller

Some Kind of Perfect – Ryan McMullan

Chapter Seventeen

Caiden

There’s a smell in here that makes my stomach roll. A mixture of something powerfully sweet and potently acrid like cheap perfume covering up the scent of decay. Locking the door behind me, I hit the switch and the bathroom is flooded with bright white light. It’s fancy - as fancy as the house it belongs to. Larger than the one in my small apartment by at least double, with black and white tiles and modern, silver furnishings. The floor though, is wet and tacky, and there’s toilet paper and beer bottles littering the place, bringing ruin to what I presume is a usually well maintained room.

As I press my back to the wall and slide down, I can feel the vibrations of music - the party continuing as I sit and stare at the blank space in front of me, avoiding the floor to ceiling mirror to my right. I don’t need to look myself in the eye now that I’ve finally come to this decision.

Three years.

Three years ago today I was at a party not dissimilar to this one. Only then, I wasn’t alone. Cooper’s smiling face as we danced that night haunts me every single year. He’d been so happy. So alive and so goddamn happy.

Three years.

That’s a long time to mourn someone. One thousand and ninety five days of putting one foot in front of the other and trying,tryingso bloody hard to be better. To be everything that Cooper was. To feel like I deserved the life that I got to keep living while at the same time punishing myself because he didn’t. Bringing my drink to my lips, I swallow the last bitter sip of the now warm liquid and rest my head against the cold tiles of the wall.

I’m so done trying.

My phone beeps but I ignore it and instead, pull out the battered brown wallet that Cooper gave me years ago. It’s barely holding itself together, so much like me, I want to laugh at the irony. From inside, I pull out two objects. A photo - Cooper and I when we turned eighteen - and a thin stainless steel razor blade.

Grief is a monster that hangs on your shoulders until you’re too weak to fight it. Until exhaustion settles in and the monster whispers in your ear to just give up. I think if you’re strong enough, you can fight it off. I think you can win and grief can become a part of you but not enough to control you. But my monster has won because I am not strong. I never have been.

I sip at the beer bottle again, groaning when I remember it's empty. Throwing it across the room, I flinch when it smashes on the tiled floor. My mouth feels dry despite the numerous beers I’ve consumed - probably a side effect of whatever pill I got handed on the dance floor - and I rub my tongue over my top lip, the metal of the bar in it clacking against my teeth. With shaking hands, I rest the photo on my lap then lift the blade in my right hand and hold it against the smooth, pale flesh of my left wrist. Amixture of alcohol and nerves makes it hard for me to steady my shaking as I press the sharp end firmly until it breaks the skin.

My heart thuds, banging on my ribcage like it’s begging me to stop. Rattling against its confines and trying to escape the agony I’m about to inflict on it. Squeezing my lips shut, I muffle the sobs that work up my throat as I pull the blade through my flesh. Warm blood oozes from the gash and drips down my arm. My vision whites out on the edges and I blink and look down at the trails of red liquid.

Crimson spots cover the photo of my brother’s smiling face and I close my eyes so that the last time I see him, he’s not covered in my blood. I try to smile while I tell myself this was the best choice I could have made. Now, I’ll see Cooper again. With unsteady hands, and my eyes still closed, I swap the blade to my other hand and hold it to my skin again.

Time stops as I watch my hand holding the blade. I hesitate and in the space of two broken heartbeats, a wave of uncertainty hits me. What if I’m wrong? What if I never see Cooper again? Panic bubbles in my chest, crushing my lungs so I can barely breathe. My vision whites out at the edges and my head swirls like I’m underwater. What if I die and I don’t find him in whatever place lies beyond this? What if there is no place among the stars where I get to be with him again?

I blink rapidly, tears gripping my eyelashes as my chin hits my chest, a broken whimper passing my lips, and I know it the second the thoughts cross my mind - I don’t want to die. Dying without the certainty that I’ll see him again is scarier than living without him.

Dropping the blade, I roll onto my stomach and push upwards, it’s not too late to take it all back. I’ll try harder this time. My legs buckle and I use a towel rail for leverage, pulling myself into a standing position. But my foot slips on the tile and I go down. Reaching for the towel rail again, my fingers brush thecool metal but not enough to stop my descent. I manage to twist my body, missing the basin but my head hits the tiles with a thud. My cheek presses to the cold tile and the last thing I hear is banging on the door before everything goes black.

Awareness creeps in like fog over the ocean, slowly bringing with it a clarity that is filled with a confusing mixture of relief and dread. The beeping of a machine nearby confirms what I already know.

I'm still here.

My eyelids are heavy and I squeeze them tighter together until bright spots dance in my vision. My head hurts but it feels clearer than it did when I first got here.

Vaguely, I remember someone getting into the bathroom and lifting me off the floor. I remember the kind eyes of the paramedics who loaded me into the ambulance and the wide eyes of the other partygoers. I remember arriving at the hospital and a lovely nurse checking my vitals. She’d smiled at me and asked me questions. Then she’d left me for a while and returned later to glue and bandage the cut on my arm. I remember words like ‘triage’ and ‘concussion’ and ‘observation’ and her asking if there was someone I wanted her to call. I remember opening my mouth to tell her to call Cooper but then shaking my head. It hurt both physically and deep inside. I’d still been a little drunk and my head was fuzzy and for a moment I mixed up being here now with being here three years ago. It was the smell that confused me most - the powerful scent of the hospital that reminded me of that night. Even now, with my eyes closed, taking a deep breath, I can still hear my cries, and Jamie's criesand the heart shattering screams of my father. I can still feel the crunch of my own heart and the emptiness that filled my soul as if it was only yesterday.

There’s something else though - something that’s niggling at me about the early hours of this morning, but I can’t quite work out what it is. Someone shuffles next to me. Slowly, uncertain of what or who I will find, I open my eyes. The lights are bright and I lift a hand to shield my eyes as I scrunch them shut again. Pain radiates up my arm and I try again, lifting my lids until I can bear the fluorescent lighting. My head throbs in time with my rapidly beating heart and there’s a drip connected to my hand.

“Good to see you’re awake, Mr Carrington.” A different nurse than the one who triaged me in the early hours of the morning wanders around the bed. She opens my notes then pulls over a machine which she attaches to my upper arm.

“How are you feeling?” she asks once she's jotted down some more notes then takes my wrist in her hand and checks the bandages.

My throat is raw when I try to answer and I flinch against the pain when I swallow. She notices and hands me a glass of water which I gratefully accept, the cold doing wonders to ease the discomfort.

“Okay,” I say. It’s not a lie but it’s also not the truth.

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