Page 4 of Unmasking Mayhem
When I step into the basement through the side door, the first thing that catches my eye is a display of at least two dozen ARs and AKs sprawled across the lounge table, sending a knot twisting in my stomach. Just when I thought the deaths from the intense race a few nights ago had left me rattled, the promise of what’s about to unfold intensifies my anxiety, stirring a perfect fucking storm of emotions within me. But at least with my mental health struggles, I’m not in this alone.
In our younger days, Whitney was diagnosed with bipolar 1, depression with delusions, and anxiety—consequences of the torment she faced with her biological parents as well as in her previous foster homes. She seldom spoke about it, but we could see her suffering. Raze and I often heard her sobbing or screaming in her room at night, plagued by nightmares or taunted by the things she saw and heard that weren't really there; it left us feeling fucking helpless.
We uncovered the truth of her past only by sneaking a glance at her file. We knew, too, that she grappled with consistently taking her medication, leading to numerous stints in a mental hospital before and during her time with us. But it never changed how we felt about her.
Even now, she remains hesitant when taking her meds most days, and I only realize it when I’m at her apartment and I find myself counting her pills whenever she steps out. I understand her embarrassment over her disorders, yet it’s a burden she shouldn’t have to bear alone. Still, it’s pointless to tell her that, as it wouldn't make a difference. What she doesn’t know is that I, too, wrestle with my own demon: schizophrenia. Raze is the one who ensures I take my medication, even when I’m reluctant. I’ve managed to keep my episodes at bay, but recently my mental health has been faltering, and I'm fucking truly struggling.
In the harsh world of foster care, where we were treated like orphans, no one seemed to care about our mental well-being. They were indifferent to our needs, focused solely on the medications we were prescribed—their only concern was whether they were valuable enough to steal to sell or consume for themselves to get high.
Having skipped my meds for the past two days, I can feel myself beginning to spiral. I’m seeing things that aren’t there, conversing with imaginary figures, and fucking plagued by paranoia as if I’m being followed everywhere I go. But I can’tconfess it to anyone. If King or D knew, they would pull me from active duty and confine me somewhere else in the basement, placing me under watch from the moment I arrive until I leave. And, fuck, I can’t let that happen.
Lost in my thoughts, I’m startled back to reality when Raze appears beside me, nudging my shoulder gently. The worry etched on his face immediately tells me he senses something is off, but no matter how hard I try, I’ve never been able to keep anything from him. Noticing the distant gaze in my eyes, he grips my elbow and guides me toward the staircase, whispering so that no one else can hear us.
“What the hell is going on with you, Hawk?” He asks, his jaw clenched, but a trace of concern softens his tone.
“Nothing,” I reply, though the lie is clearly evident on my face—my mind feels transparent, revealing all my darkest secrets.
“Fucking liar. Don’t make me fucking tell King,” he warns, but it’s rooted in his worry for me.
When I don’t respond, he shakes his head, running a hand over the mask concealing his own expression. “When’s the last time you took your meds?” he asks, already knowing my answer.
“A few days ago,” I admit, feeling so fucking small under his scrutiny.
“Jesus, Hawk, you’re on the verge of a fucking breakdown, and everything's going to spiral even further.” He looks around to find King and D. “I’ll be right back.”
I don’t protest as he walks away; instead, I lean against the stairwell, hands stuffed in my pockets, consumed by shame. I catch glimpses of him as he whispers to them, throwing anxious glances in my direction, and the anticipation makes my palms sweat. When he returns, he leads me straight up the stairs to the club, directing me toward the stage where Whitney dances, her somber spirit echoing my own.
“Sit,” he commands, pushing me down into a chair directly in front of her pole. “You’re on Whitney watch tonight while the rest of us handle some things.”
“I want to come,” I protest, though deep down I know that’s the last thing I truly want, and Raze is aware of it too.
He flashes a knowing smile, fully aware of my façade, and it brings a sliver of comfort. Reaching into his pocket, he produces a small pill container keychain, unscrews the top, and pours my medication into my palm. I roll my eyes as he pushes my hand toward my mouth, clearly prepared to stand there and watch me take them.
“You know I despise these things,” I grumble, popping the pills into my mouth and sticking out my tongue for his sake.
“I know, but if you don’t take them, you’re going to lose it, and we both know what happens then. Now, fucking swallow,” he insists, handing me a beer.
I take the meds and open my mouth again to show him, feeling like a child forced into compliance. Yet, underneath it all, I’m grateful for Raze and his unwavering care. We’ve only ever had each other, and that’s how it’ll always be.
“Thank you for not fighting me on this,” he says, giving me a reassuring clap on the back. “Now, keep an eye on our girl and make sure she gets home safely. I’ll check in with you later tonight.” He pulls me into a brief hug, blowing a kiss to Whitney as he retreats to the basement.
Once he’s gone, I take a few deep breaths before glancing up at Whitney, who is already gazing at me with intensity. I offer a smile, albeit a strained one, not so much for her but due to the turmoil whirling in my mind. She smiles back and gracefully makes her way off the stage to settle onto my lap. For the first time all night, I finally exhale, allowing myself to relax within her embrace as her arms close securely around me.
“You’re all mine tonight,” I whisper, resting my hand on her bare upper thigh, electricity dancing through me as our skin meets, and I know she feels the spark too.
“Good, I think we both need this,” she replies, a hint of sadness lacing her words that tugs at my heartstrings.
There’s a heaviness in the air, a tension that seems to thrum between us, but I’m determined to push away the shadows lurking in my mind. Whitney's warmth is soothing against the chill of my spiraling thoughts, her chaotic energy grounding me in ways I can barely explain. I lean into her, hoping to find solace in the moment, to forget about the arsenal of weaponry below, the chaos that hangs above us like a storm about to fucking break.
As the distant bass of the music reverberates through the club, I start to focus on her—her body, her spirit, the way her laughter even sounds like a respite from the world outside. I bury my face in her hair, inhaling the familiar scent of coconut and jasmine, a scent that has become synonymous with home. If only I could bottle this feeling—this sliver of peace in the nuclear wasteland of our lives.
"Are you okay?" she asks, pulling back slightly to look into my eyes, concern flickering across her face.
In this moment, she's stripped bare, revealing her vulnerabilities, just like me. Our unsaid words intertwine like our fingers, creating a bond stronger than anything else in this world.
"I'm...trying to be," I admit, my voice barely above a whisper as I avoid her gaze, staring instead at the dimly lit floor.
She brushes my cheek with her fingertips, coaxing my eyes back to hers. “We’ve got each other, Crow. We’ll get through this.”
