Page 65 of Unmasking Mayhem
"I'm not even convinced our phones are safe," I admit, anxiety rumbling in my chest. “They might be monitoring everything. We can’t trust anyone, not when it comes to Whitney.”
Finally, Raze gets Whitney’s phone to connect to the Wi-Fi, the screen lighting up with the signal indicator. He takes a deep, relieved breath, scrolling away as I pace the room, letting my thoughts spiral out of control, letting the voices get to me, which makes the paranoia much worse. The expectation of imminent danger lingers overhead like a dark cloud, and every second spent here feels like a fucking wasted opportunity.
"We need to try and figure out where he fucking took her," I snap, slamming my open hand on the table beside the small couch, finally taking off my mask so I can breathe better.
Raze takes his off and tosses it onto the bed with mine, both of us running our hands down our faces while we think about what the fuck we're going to do. Raze nods as he scrolls through Whitney's phone, trying to find even the smallest hint of where Dustin might've taken her. We know he wants revenge on her for putting his ass away for 25 to life. He's admitted that he wants to kill her. He's the type of guy who will kill anyone he wants if it means they won't get to be with anyone else other than him. He's fucking psychotic. Delusional. And deep down I never imagined we'd end up here, hiding from Dustin once again, although this time we know exactly how to strike back.
A sharp pain resonates in my chest, slowly spreading to my heart and making it begin throbbing in excruciating pain, matching the rhythm of each heartbeat. I feel like I'm dying. I feel like I'm going crazy—which I am. I feel hopeless, lost, depressed as fuck, and alone, sad to say. But I've never felt more alone, even though Raze is always by my side. I can't seem to fight the strongholds of the disease that's ultimately going to be my fucking downfall.
Depression sucks.
Schizophrenia fucking sucks.
Anxiety sucks ass.
They all fucking suck, even the ones I didn't mention.
I was born one way but turned out completely different thanks to all the trauma and abuse I went through growing up. I turned myself fucking crazy, claiming it was a coping mechanism from the torment. So I fucked myself. I didn’t have any mental health issues until my sixth foster home, when I was only ten. What happened to me in that house was the catalyst for everything else that destroyed my fucking life.
"How long has it been this time?" Raze asks completely out of the blue, never looking up from Whitney's phone.
I don't try to play dumb; I know what he's talking about. Raze is the only one who knows about my situation and knows that I'm on a fucking boatload of medicine, and I have no further plans to inform anyone else.
I shrug, exhaling slowly. "About a week now," I admit, hearing him sigh heavily before getting up and snatching his backpack off the bed and angrily zipping it open, mumbling under his breath.
"What are you fucking thinking, Hawk?" Raze snaps, throwing me a little bubble with my daily meds portioned inside. "We're supposed to be focusing on getting Whitney back, man, not focused on making sure you take your fucking meds."
I can tell he's angry, and I can't blame him. I just want his life to be better, and I don't want to continue being a burden for him, especially in tough times like this. Without giving him a remark back, I rip open the bubble and dump the colorful pills into my mouth. Grabbing the slightly warm beer I've been sipping on since we got to the club, I wash the array of pills down—all different colors, shapes, and sizes—feeling each one slide down my throat and leaving a nasty taste in my mouth.
I hate most of my meds, so I try to make sure I'll be okay while experimenting without taking them. I don't feel so numb or lonely. My anxiety is under control—there's no more chewing cuticles and picking desperately at any little thing I feel on my skin. I feel more like myself off my meds than I do when I'm on them. But they keep the voices quiet. They push the paranoia down as deep as it'll go, just sweeping it all under the rug, so to speak. And whether I like to admit it or not, they turn me into a functioning member of our society.
"I know you struggle with that shit—taking your meds—but please come to me if you want to not take them or whatever; this way I can help you, and it'll save us both in the long run if something happens; at least we'll know if you took your meds or not. Just, fuck," he huffs, turning his attention back to the mystery of Whitney's phone. "Stop keeping that shit from me. I'm your fucking brother, Hawk; you shouldn't be keeping shit like that from me anyway. If you're having a bad day, just come talk to me. I'm always here, and I've always been right here with you."
His sentimental words have my heart in a chokehold. It feels like barbed wire is wrapped tightly around my heart, putting my fragile mind through a mix of emotions that I don't know if I'm strong enough to handle.
“I just don't want to be a burden anymore—to anyone.” I swallow hard, the lump in my throat growing thicker as Raze's genuine concern drapes over me like a warm blanket.
"I know. It’s just, sometimes I can’t fight it, you know? I just feel trapped in my own mind, like I’m watching everything fall apart from the outside and can’t do a fucking thing about it,” I murmur, guilt gnawing at my heart for the strain I put on him.
Raze pats my shoulder, a comforting gesture I desperately cling to. “You’re not a fucking burden,” he insists fiercely, hisdark eyes boring into me. "You're my brother. We fight together, remember? Just like we’re fighting for Whitney now.”
My thoughts drift back to her, caught in the eye of the storm, a victim of more chaos than she deserves. “I just… I don’t want to let her down. I can’t lose her, Raze,” I admit, the rawness of my vulnerability lacing my words.
He nods, a flicker of understanding flashing in his gaze. “We won’t. We’ll get her back, I promise.”
With renewed determination, I take a deep breath, and Raze turns his attention back to Whitney's phone. “Alright, let’s see if we can find any clues about Dustin or where he’s keeping her,” he says, his fingers dancing over the screen as he fiddles with the message threads and photos.
The silence stretches as I watch Raze scroll through her texts, tension threading through the air thicker than the smoke from our earlier blunt. I find myself pacing again, the anticipation creating an itch beneath my skin. If only we could bypass all of this and get back to where it was just the three of us, carefree and blissfully oblivious. But reality doesn’t fucking play fair, and every moment I face the truth feels like a jagged edge slicing through me. I pull my phone out, scanning through my contacts, tempted to reach out to anyone who might help. But all I find is noise, distractions that lead nowhere and keep me from the singular focus we need.
“Hold up,” Raze suddenly mutters, drawing my attention back. “Look at this.”
I glance over his shoulder to see a text thread with an unknown number—Dustin’s new burner—and my heart sinks. Raze gestures to an image embedded within the messages, a photo of a warehouse with a familiar structure. “This is the one,” he states with conviction, his voice low.
“What does it say?” I ask, leaning closer.
Raze’s fingers fly over the screen. “It’s a cryptic message; he’s telling someone that something is ‘to be collected’ tonight. But there’s also a note about a party later that will play out at the same place…”
My mind races, each word painting a grim picture of what could unfold. “A party? Why the hell would they do that?”
