Page 66 of Dark Ink

In another life I might have stayed at Rian’s apartment, in his bed with him all day. Talking, laughing, fucking.

But I had responsibilities. I had class. And I had Stewart.

I’d already been away all night already.

I’d waited until Rian was asleep before I’d snuck out of his apartment. I knew it was a shitty thing to do. But I doubted he’d let me go if I told him I had to leave. I didn’t have enough energy in me to fight.

Stewart had been asleep when I’d returned home the next morning. I moved quietly around my apartment, packing my bag for school.

It wasn’t the first sleepless night I’d had before school and I was certain it wouldn’t be the last. The IDs were in a tidy pile on the little makeshift nightstand: two textbooks, a box of Kleenex, and an old painting palette balanced atop. I’d written Stewart a note, hoping that I might slip out before he awoke. I didn’t want to have to make him tea. Scrounge up some breakfast I didn’t even bother with for myself. Check his bandages. Press the back of my hand against his forehead to check for signs of infections. But most of all I just didn’t want to see him. Or have him see me.

“Eithne,” Stewart mumbled with a thick voice.

For a moment I considered pretending I hadn’t heard him. Slipping out the door without glancing in his direction.

But my guilt won out, familial duty heavy on my shoulders.

With gritted teeth, I slipped my bag from my shoulder.

“Stewart,” I said, turning to him with a smile I wondered if he could see through, “hey, how are you feeling?”

I watched and tried to draw up sympathy as my older brother swallowed painfully and grimaced with every shift of his prone body. But the well, it seemed, was empty. I just wanted to get out of there. Go to class. Be gone.

“I, um, I left the IDs there,” I said when he sank back against the limp pillow with a groan and nothing more. “It’s everything Nick asked for. That should end things. I, um, I need to get to class, so—”

A sob broke from my big brother’s chapped lips. I was at Stewart’s side like a faithful dog before I knew what I was doing. But I was worse than a dog. Because it was guilt that drove me. Shame that made me take my brother’s hand. I wondered if he felt how limply I held it.

“Shh,” I whispered as Stewart cried. “Shh, it’s okay, it’s okay.”

Tears streaked the spots of dried blood I’d missed cleaning off his cheeks last night. They stained the corners of the bandages I’d applied with care. They pooled in his throat which trembled as he snivelled.

I glanced just once at the clock. And swallowed a sigh. I scooted farther onto the bed and said, “Hey, hey, we’re alright.”

Stewart’s arms knocked the air out of me as he wrapped them around me, drew me tight to him, squeezed me so hard I could barely breathe. His breath was hot against my neck as he whispered in a near panic, “Eithne, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The words kept coming so quickly that I couldn’t interrupt. Couldn’t say anything in response. I just had to lie there, getting crushed, getting waterboarded by apologies, gagging on each “I’m sorry.”

A flare of anger rose up in me. When was it my turn? When was it my fucking turn to break down? To break everything? To have someone else pick up the pieces? Pick up me? Put me back together?

Stewart held open the door for a violent drug dealer. My father held my mother’s death over my head. But they didn’t hold me. They crushed me. Choked the life out of me. That’s not what I needed. That’s not being held. That’s being held hostage.

And yet empty words came spilling out from between my lips, “Stewart, you don’t need to apologise. I’ll always be here for you. No, please, it’s me who should be apologising. Stewart…”

I wanted to scream his name. I wanted to shove him away. I wanted him out of my fucking life.

Instead, I stayed there in the bone-crushing embrace of my big brother, till he cried himself back to sleep. He had my forgiveness. Or rather, he had my assurances that he didn’t need my forgiveness. He had the comfort of my body, a pillow that shaped itself perfectly to his body. He had Nick’s IDs. He had a morning to sleep. To rest. To heal.

I, on the other hand, had boulders on my eyelids. Hammers against my temples. I had no air in my lungs. I had work later. I had yet another missed class. More notes to hunt down. More assignments to make up. More grades to improve. I had a fucked-up professor who fucked me. Who hurt me. Who liked it. Who liked that I liked it.

But I had no one.

Rian

It wasn’t hard finding Stewart. When you know a man’s vice and you know the man who supplies that man’s vice, it’s never very hard. It was almost silly, checking at Eithne’s new place across from campus first. In that apartment there was nothing but unconditional love, a fridge full of fresh fruits and vegetables, and a computer to apply for any job in the goddamn world. Of what use was any of that for a junkie?

Still, more for Eithne’s sake than for mine, I went there first. Maybe if I’d found Stewart there, writing a heartfelt apology to his little sister or munching on some, I don’t know, fecking kale, or researching how to write a cover letter, I might have reconsidered what I was about to do. But of course Stewart wasn’t there. And of course there was no bleedin’ way I was going to change my mind.

Not after what I’d experienced in that lecture hall. Not when I could still taste her sweet nectar on my tongue. Not when I had the chance, and compulsive, irresistible, probably a little destructive need, to love what needed loving, what deserved loving, the chance to finally do some good in this world.

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