Page 6 of Psycho Killers

I found myself unable to sit still. The need to do something—anything—gnawed at me. I bounced my leg, restless and agitated, the sterile scent of antiseptic suddenly nauseating. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitors, once a constant reminder of Ash's precarious state, now felt like a fucking mocking metronome, marking the slow, agonizing passage of time, and so I held onto Calista even tighter, so fucking afraid to let her go. I needed her. We all fucking needed her. But there was only one problem: She was long fucking gone, her mind a hectic mess of chaos and turmoil as she fought the voices that had randomly returned. If she was gone, who would we have to hold onto? We had each other, but in the end, was that going to be enough?

Then, the doctor appeared again. This time, he didn't speak in clinical jargon. He spoke in simple, direct terms, his voice devoid of the usual professional detachment. He spoke of Ash's progress, of his improved breathing, of the slight increase in his blood pressure. He spoke of the possibility of seeing him soon. And he also spoke of the medically induced coma they had to put him in so he could begin to heal on the inside.

The words hovered above us, fragile as butterfly wings. We didn't dare breathe, afraid to break the spell, afraid to shatter the delicate hope that had begun to bloom. The doctor's words were cautious, laced with warnings about the long road ahead and the potential for setbacks, but regardless, Ash was going to get better.

A wave of relief, so profound it almost hurt, washed over us. Tears streamed down Calista's face—tears of relief and despair. Five kissed her cheeks, lighting up her smile, his eyes shining with unshed tears. Even Dom seemed to relax, the tension visibly draining from his shoulders, but it was only for a second or two, and then he was more manic than he'd been before. Thestorm hadn't passed; the wind had lessened, but the rain picked up to a brutal drizzle.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, we were allowed to see him. The sight of Ash, pale and frail, hooked up to machines, was fucking heartbreaking. But there was something else too—a flicker in his fingers, a slight twitch of his lips in response to Cali's voice. It was a fragile thing—a whisper of life in the face of death—but it was enough.It was fucking everything.

We knew the road to recovery would be long and arduous, filled with challenges and setbacks. But as we stood there, watching over Ash, hand in hand, we knew we could handle it. The storm might rage on, but we were working on finding our footing, our strength, our fucking hope. We had already found each other, and in that, we found the strength to brave any fucking storm.

For the first time in a long time, we felt a glimmer of something real, something powerful, something that whispered of a future where laughter would once again fill our lives, a future where Ash would be with us, not just fighting for his life, but living it.

We hoped. We fucking prayed to a higher power that never protected us or saved us, one who let us endure all the trauma we did as children. But fuck we prayed, because we didn't know what else to do. We needed something to believe in to get us through this difficult time. Now it was only a matter of time to see if it actually worked.

FOUR

REAL LOVE

I'M NOT OKAY: MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

CALISTA

The following days were a blur of anxious waiting, sleepless nights, and desperate prayers. We took turns at Ash's bedside, our clasped hands a testament to our unwavering bond, our silent prayers a plea for strength. Fear was a constant shadow, whispering doubts and anxieties. Yet, amidst the terror, a fierce determination burned—a shared resolve to fight harder than ever before. We would overcome this. We had to. For Ash. For ourselves. For the fragile fucking ember of hope that still flickered within us—a tiny spark in the overwhelming darkness.

It wasn't fucking easy. Knowing Ash lay before us, yet felt so distant, fucking shattered me, reigniting my many disorders with brutal force. All my progress vanished. Voices haunted my head for days, robbing me of sleep. Addy's constant presence, though supportive, evoked the claustrophobia of my childhood, the feeling of being trapped, chained to a bloodstained mattress in a dusty attic.

At home, I numbed the pain with drugs, neglecting even basic hygiene, consumed by guilt. The knowledge that Ash's overdose was drug-related held no sway over my addiction; I craved numbness above all else. My best friend's near-death experience meant nothing to the addict within. The desire to escape intensified. The stark realization—that I'd regressed significantly, perhaps even spiraled further than before—was devastating.

The others weren't doing much better. We all sought refuge in drugs, escaping into oblivion, a haze that dulled the agonizing reality of Ash's coma. We were too high to think about it. We never fucking forgot for a second about Ash, but the drugs made it easier to push the pain to the back of our minds... for the time being.

Trauma manifests differently for everyone; there's no single "right" way to cope. For us, drugs had always been a constant, a familiar crutch, especially in our darkest hours. Now, they were our constant companion once more. But we all knew that once the high wore off and the drugs were gone, we'd be hit ten times harder with the reality that Ash had overdosed and was now in a coma because of it. And shit, we were never ready for that moment. But it always came no matter fucking what.

But drugs weren't our only coping mechanism.

We threw ourselves at each other, spending all day and night fucking as roughly as we could and then fighting over mundane things. Killian painted more, not caring which building he defaced with his art. Five was holding more races, spending his free time in h-town, or the underground, as everyone called it. And Dom, fresh with his cast off, spent night after night racing, doing it more so for the rush than the winnings.

We also leaned on each other, a tangled, messy web of support that was as flawed as it was vital. We talked, sometimes, mostly about Ash, sometimes about the crushing weight of guiltthat threatened to suffocate us. Other times, the silence was deafening, a heavy blanket woven from unspoken fears and shared grief. We cooked meals—terrible, haphazard meals that were more about the act of doing something together than the actual food. We watched movies, bad horror flicks that offered a brief respite from the gnawing anxiety. We cried—sometimes together, sometimes alone—the tears a silent testament to the pain that threatened to consume us.

Addy, bless her heart, tried to maintain some semblance of normalcy. She cleaned, she organized, she tried to coax me into eating something other than instant ramen. She was my anchor, my steady hand in the storm, but even she was fraying at the fucking edges. I saw it in the way she’d bite her lip when she thought I wasn't looking, in the way her smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.

Her expressions mirrored mine because she was me, but I found myself having a hard time coming to terms with it all over again. She felt so real to me, but deep down I knew that she wasn't. Nobody could see her, but they could all see me talking to myself when, in my fucked-up mind, I was talking to Addy.

TWO WEEKS LATER

Another restless night unable to sleep, I force myself out of Ash's bed, where I've been sleeping alone, and wrap his blanket around me while I drag my feet down the dark hall, using the moonlight shining through the balcony doors as my guide.

I peek into Dom's room and see him passed out on his bed, curled up in the fetal position, Killian sprawled out comfortably right beside him, both snoring and sleeping soundly for the first time in the two weeks that Ash has been in the hospital.

A smile graces my lips at the sight, my frozen heart thawing little by little. I keep the door open a crack, continuing down the hall. Once I'm in the living room and I don't see Five, panic slowly creeps up my throat but slowly subsides as my eyes catch the flickering flame of a lighter on the balcony.

Wrapping the blanket tighter around me, I quietly slide open the door and step onto the cold wood with bare feet, startling Five and making him jump.

"Jesus, Cali. You scared the shit out of me," he says breathlessly, patting his lap for me to sit down.

"Sorry," I tell him, taking a seat, my back instinctively leaning against his chest. "I didn't mean to. I couldn't sleep, and then I saw the flame from your lighter and decided to join you."

He holds me tightly, the blunt hanging out of his mouth, smoke swirling between us, like we're trapped in some kind of fog. He smiles, his eyes squinting, puffy and red, a dead giveaway that he's been crying, just like I was. He hands me the blunt, and I take it without question, inhaling the potent smoke until it pours out of my nose from not being able to breathe. The cough jolts me awake, my lungs feeling like a fucking elephant is standing on my chest.

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