an idiotic and dangerous path that only a coward takes, and that the real solution would have been to band together.”
She nods. I know she gets it. She’s probably heard this part of the story countless times before from Paul. Did she ever hear it from her dad? The tears build because I already miss being someone who hasn’t caused her pain. “Hey,” I say, taking her hand. “I promise that, if you’ll allow me, before the night is through I will tell you every last thing, but first, I have to know if you are okay. Paul told me about your dad.”
Her sigh tells me the subject holds sorrow that she would rather keep at bay. “Let me guess,” she says with resignation to how things work in her life, “long story short, Paul knew what was up with you. He gave you a chance to prove you were no longer a mess, and then you decided to step forward, possibly because you knew that if you didn’t do it soon, he would have words for you.” She peers up, and I get a hint of a smirk through her tears.
“Honestly, that is part of it, but I swear I would have told you anyway.”
“Sounds just like him,” she says while wiping the tears from her face.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She squeezes my arm and forces a smile of support. I can only begin to imagine what memories are flooding her mind. “I’m okay,” she says. I want to believe her without question, but I sense her guard rising. “Just keep telling me everything. How did it get out of control? What did it do to you?”
Paul warned me about this, too—that she’d likely hear me out while wondering how much I am like her father. But even if our stories are identical in how they started, the similarities will eventually end since I am sober and he is in a grave. I need to remember that, because my immediate reaction to her question about why I lost it is to head to the nearest bar.
The memories begin to flow—horrible memories of the things that drove me into addiction. Memories that bring back images of my brother becoming so ashen, so lifeless, so full of … nothing. I can’t fight my closing throat, because what happened to Eddie was only a step deeper into hell than I went. Laura is as bad as he was.
Etta nuzzles against me, offering comfort and showing me love. It makes the shame over the mess Eddie and I made, and the innocents we hurt, sicken me deeper.
“Eddie’s band was on the verge of hitting it big when their addictions took over so strongly that they sold their equipment to pay for speed. He had just gotten out of a twelve-step program and was sharing his excitement over building new dreams when we were walking down a rural road. A car came out of nowhere and swiped him, tossing him into the air and smacking him onto the shoulder. The driver only slowed for a moment, and then went on as if nothing happened.”
My forehead tightens, and I close my eyes in hopes of shutting out the vision of the past. “Eddie was not only covered in blood, he wasn’t breathing. His pulse was faint, so I gave him CPR, even though each press brought up blood. It was probably hopeless from the start, yet I couldn’t abandon him. Every breath I gave filled my mouth with gore and made me feel powerless. Being powerless while someone you love suffers is the most soul-scraping thing that can happen. You pray to switch places. You act in desperation. You swear that you will surrender everything good you have just for them to take another breath.”
The bile burns its way up my throat, and it’s gulped back down. My hands press into my temples, trying to push out the hurt. I’ve never been able to fight the desperation I feel when it comes to that moment. “Do you have any idea what it is like to watch someone you love suffer while they teeter on the verge of death? To be on your knees, praying and doing everything you can to help them, while knowing it is futile? When do you stop praying for salvation and start praying for mercy? When do you
She nods. I know she gets it. She’s probably heard this part of the story countless times before from Paul. Did she ever hear it from her dad? The tears build because I already miss being someone who hasn’t caused her pain. “Hey,” I say, taking her hand. “I promise that, if you’ll allow me, before the night is through I will tell you every last thing, but first, I have to know if you are okay. Paul told me about your dad.”
Her sigh tells me the subject holds sorrow that she would rather keep at bay. “Let me guess,” she says with resignation to how things work in her life, “long story short, Paul knew what was up with you. He gave you a chance to prove you were no longer a mess, and then you decided to step forward, possibly because you knew that if you didn’t do it soon, he would have words for you.” She peers up, and I get a hint of a smirk through her tears.
“Honestly, that is part of it, but I swear I would have told you anyway.”
“Sounds just like him,” she says while wiping the tears from her face.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
She squeezes my arm and forces a smile of support. I can only begin to imagine what memories are flooding her mind. “I’m okay,” she says. I want to believe her without question, but I sense her guard rising. “Just keep telling me everything. How did it get out of control? What did it do to you?”
Paul warned me about this, too—that she’d likely hear me out while wondering how much I am like her father. But even if our stories are identical in how they started, the similarities will eventually end since I am sober and he is in a grave. I need to remember that, because my immediate reaction to her question about why I lost it is to head to the nearest bar.
The memories begin to flow—horrible memories of the things that drove me into addiction. Memories that bring back images of my brother becoming so ashen, so lifeless, so full of … nothing. I can’t fight my closing throat, because what happened to Eddie was only a step deeper into hell than I went. Laura is as bad as he was.
Etta nuzzles against me, offering comfort and showing me love. It makes the shame over the mess Eddie and I made, and the innocents we hurt, sicken me deeper.
“Eddie’s band was on the verge of hitting it big when their addictions took over so strongly that they sold their equipment to pay for speed. He had just gotten out of a twelve-step program and was sharing his excitement over building new dreams when we were walking down a rural road. A car came out of nowhere and swiped him, tossing him into the air and smacking him onto the shoulder. The driver only slowed for a moment, and then went on as if nothing happened.”
My forehead tightens, and I close my eyes in hopes of shutting out the vision of the past. “Eddie was not only covered in blood, he wasn’t breathing. His pulse was faint, so I gave him CPR, even though each press brought up blood. It was probably hopeless from the start, yet I couldn’t abandon him. Every breath I gave filled my mouth with gore and made me feel powerless. Being powerless while someone you love suffers is the most soul-scraping thing that can happen. You pray to switch places. You act in desperation. You swear that you will surrender everything good you have just for them to take another breath.”
The bile burns its way up my throat, and it’s gulped back down. My hands press into my temples, trying to push out the hurt. I’ve never been able to fight the desperation I feel when it comes to that moment. “Do you have any idea what it is like to watch someone you love suffer while they teeter on the verge of death? To be on your knees, praying and doing everything you can to help them, while knowing it is futile? When do you stop praying for salvation and start praying for mercy? When do you
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