Page 99 of Inevitable Destruction

When my back crashes against the seat, I fall forward, bringing my soaking wet shoes to the seat and pressing my knees against my chest. The cord of my earbuds hangs around my neck and down my torso, tangling with the strings of my sweatpants as I fall further back in the seat as Jay reclines it.

I hear the door on the side slam shut, and then the small interior of the car is bathed in darkness as the light above dies out. The only sounds permeating the silence are the hammering of raindrops against the metal roof and windshield and Jay’s labored breathing.

It’s quiet for a while as we sit, not moving, and I’m almost certain I’m not even breathing. At least, I can’t feel the oxygen in my lungs, but then again, it’s impossible when my heart contracts painfully with every worthless beat.

“Dom…” The word dies off on Jay’s tongue. Damp fingers caress my outer arm, and I jerk away in pain, a whimper falling from my lips at the pain a foreign touch brings me. He doesn’t hesitate to grab my arm again, this time turning it over and giving him a bird’s-eye view of the track marks.

“Have you been fucking shooting up?” he balks, his voice raising to an impossibly high level for his deep voice. I hear his words, but they don’t register. Nothing does.

His body hovers over mine, his fingers tightening their grip on my skin until an involuntary hiss escapes from my lips. He releases me and rights himself in his seat. The cold calamity of the air surrounding me is stifling; so much so, I’m sure he can feel its palpability.

“Where are we going?” he asks.

Silence.

“Dom?”

“Jesus, you’re so fucking high, you can’t even speak,” he growls and jerks the gear shift into drive before peeling away from the side of the road with a screech. His driving is angry, that much I can tell as he slams on the brakes with every stop before gunning on the gas.

Eventually, we slow as he pulls into a parking spot, slamming the car into park with a weighted huff.

Without a word, he climbs out and comes to my side, pulling me from the seat and carrying me inside bridal style. My head rests against his chest as we climb the dimly lit stairs to the second floor to avoid possible onlookers because I’m sure I would raise lots of questions in my state.

Who fucking cares. I plan on—

“Where are your keys?” Jay asks, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself, not really expecting an answer from me—which is good because I can’t even open my fucking mouth, let alone form a word.

He sets me down, planting my feet on the floor. With an arm bracing me against the door, he digs through my left pocket, finding my phone—which is dead. He moves to my other pocket, but the moment his touch finds the syringe, he jerks his hand out of my pocket like it burned him.

“You don’t have your keys.” It’s a statement, a disappointed one at that, as he skips right over what he touched, probably pretending it never happened for his own conscience.

He wiggles the handle, turning the knob, and the door creaks open, sending me tumbling backward. I fall to the floor before Jay can catch me, smacking my head as I land. “Fuck!” Jay barks out, arms flailing as he grasps for me.

An oomph puffs from my lips at the impact as I land on the carpet of the living room, sending my phone flying from my pocket and skidding across the tile floor of the kitchen. My door is smack dab in the center of both open rooms, not leaving much to the imagination—all connected by a small hallway that leads to my room and the bathroom.

“You could’ve told me the door was unlocked,” he says as walks over me and hooks his arms under my armpits from behind and pulls me up until I’m sitting, leaning against his shins.

“Did you bring the coke?” I manage to rasp, surprising myself at my ability to speak. Jay stiffens.

“I don’t think you—”

“It’s a good thing I didn’t ask your opinion.” I pull away from his touch, feeling sick to my stomach. “I need it, Jay.”

“No, Dom. You fucking don’t!” He raises his voice. “Look at you, man. You’re so fucked up, you can barely speak, and you sure as hell can’t move.

“You were curled up in the middle of the road, during a storm, at night. What the fuck is wrong with you?! You need help!” He’s screaming at me now, and all I can do is laugh.

At the irony. The symbolism. How I crave, more than anything, for it to be someone else screaming at me this hysterically, caringly. Lovingly.

Maybe I’m just too hard to love.

That’s gotta be the problem, right? Who would want to love a drug addict when they’re destined for an early grave, merely stumbling through life with one goal in mind—to fade away?

“Are you seriously laughing right now? Jesus Christ, Dominik.” He’s angry, pissed really, but that doesn’t stop him from bending down and brushing his fingers over my scruffy, gaunt cheekbone.

“You’re a shell.” His voice whispers over my skin. “And I can’t watch you kill yourself, but I know I can’t stop you—not unless you want to stop—and you don’t want to, do you?” It’s a genuine question, one he truly wants the answer to, so I give him the most honest response I can.

“No.” I don’t elaborate, the one-word syllable packing enough of a punch. My eyes drag up to meet his, filled to the brim with unshed tears. His face pinches as if in physical pain before forcing a fake as hell smile.

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