Toxic Page 8

  Chapter Fourteen

  I was dead. No. Seriously. I’d puked so much that my body was starting to shut down. I wanted the light damn it! Where the hell was the light in the tunnel? I could have sworn someone said death felt a hell of a lot better than this. —Gabe H.

  Gabe

  Moaning, I flipped over onto my stomach and reached around for my cell phone. My hand hit a lamp instead.

  I tried opening my eyes, my cell fell to the floor, making a soft clunk against a red area rug I knew didn’t belong to my room.

  I rubbed my eyes. Colors blurred and ran together. Nothing floated into focus. I shut my eyes again and rubbed them for a few seconds. When I opened them a second time, I wished I had kept them closed.

  Time machines. Someone really needed to get on top of that.

  “How do you feel?” Wes asked, sounding calm as a cucumber. He was sitting directly in front of me. Arms crossed, and looking pissed as hell. How could he look both calm and pissed at the same time? Did he have some weird split personality that only manifested itself when someone pushed him over the edge? I’d never seen that look on his face. I hated it. I hated me.

  “I really wish you would have just finished me off last night,” I grumbled.

  “Trust me.” His jaw flexed. “I wanted to. Then I realized that’s exactly what you wanted, so I chose not to beat your sorry ass and stayed up all night with you while you hallucinated about Bambi, told me stories about starting drugs at eight, and then finally — just when I thought you were going to pass out — you puked all over my bathroom — and me. Safe to say we no longer have any secrets after showering together, and if you ever, and I do mean ever, touch me there again I will end your life. Got it?”

  I groaned and nodded, then winced because it hurt so much I thought I was going to puke again.

  “Something you wanna tell me?”

  “No offense, Wes, but I really don’t want to talk right now.”

  “Funny, because I didn’t really want to watch my best friend try to commit suicide last night, yet, here we are.”

  “You’re pissed.” I felt like crawling into a dark hole and staying there. Letting down Wes was like… true agony. He was the one person I admired. And I’d failed him.

  “As hell,” Wes said in a deadly voice. “How did we get here? A few months ago you wanted a new life — you weren’t in a dark place anymore. What happened? I know the last thing you want to do is talk about your feelings — but, shit, man… you didn’t just fall off the wagon. You made a purposeful jump and flipped off the world in the process.”

  I swallowed as tears threatened to pour down my face. The choking sensation returned, the same sensation I got when the guilt wrapped itself around me. It was like an old blanket, my comfort, every time I took it off, I was so freaked out it was going to come back that I just put it back on anyway.

  “Nothing.” I shrugged. “Old habits, I guess.”

  “You haven’t done drugs in years.”

  “Things change.” I didn’t mention that I hadn’t in fact done any drugs, though I had been tempted for a few brief seconds.

  “You haven’t drank in years. You’ve been sober.”

  “Right.”

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “No. But you will anyways.”

  Wes sighed, his face turned a bit pale as he leaned forward on his knees and whispered, “Do you want to die?”

  I couldn’t answer. I could only nod.

  “Why?”

  “Because she didn’t, and it’s my fault. It’s all my fault.” I couldn’t hold it in any longer. I burst into tears and then reached into my pocket and grabbed the locket, throwing it across the room, praying it would break.

  Praying the hold she had on my heart would end.

  It didn’t.

  I fell from the bed to my knees and rocked back and forth, the tears were dried up — they always were.

  “Gabe…” Wes gripped my shoulders. “You need to talk to someone — you need help.”

  I shook my head. What I needed was music. What I needed was—

  “Guitar,” I said in a foreign voice. “Get my guitar.”

  Anyone else would have questioned me. Wes didn’t.

  Within minutes he was back in the room, guitar in hand.

  I didn’t say anything. I sat on the floor, put the guitar in my lap and started singing.

  Seconds later I was focused — calm.

  My therapy was music.

  But I’d pushed music out of my life — because it was another reminder of my sins, my regrets, so I felt guilty when I needed it, because what did she have? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. I didn’t deserve comfort.

  Two hours of playing music and my fingers hurt; they weren’t as calloused as they used to be.

  I set the guitar down and stared at the floor.

  Wes sat down next to me. We both stared at the wall.

  “Gabe.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Tell me about Ashton Hyde.”

  I froze and then did something I never thought I’d ever do to my best friend. I lied and said, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Watching my best friend wallow in the pit of hell? Not my favorite way to spend a Wednesday morning. The truth about hitting rock bottom? Sometimes you have to bang your head against the ground before you finally realize the way isn’t down but up. —Wes M.

  Saylor

  “You’ll have to sign in when you arrive and sign out when you leave.” I glanced at her nametag — Martha Hall. I’d been told a Mrs. Hall would be the liaison between me and the school during my time served at the Pacific Northwest Group Home. She pointed to the two security guards at the door, “Every evening your bag will be checked for cameras, and you’ll have to leave your phone at the front desk.”

  “My phone?” I asked. “Why?”

  “Rules.” Mrs. Hall’s smile didn’t quite reach her blue eyes. Her silver-streaked hair was pulled back so severely I wondered if she’d be more happy if she loosened it up a bit and let her face have a break. I shivered a bit, she reminded me of my first grade teacher — the one who wouldn’t let me go out to recess. Great. “And our guests deserve their privacy, besides, you’re here to work not text your boyfriend.”

  Uh. Okay. “Totally fine.”

  She sniffed. “Obviously this isn’t a paid internship, so just do the best you can to make your hours each week. If you stay on track you’ll be finished by the end of the semester.” Mrs. Hall beamed. She had black owl-like glasses and a tight wide smile — though upon closer inspection a bit of lipstick had found it’s way onto her abnormally white teeth. So maybe she wouldn’t be too bad if she just smiled more.

  “Great.” I swallowed and glanced around. The home reminded me a lot of the place where Eric had lived when he was small. It even smelled the same, like warm food, coffee, and people. At the time, I’d hated that Eric had to be there, but soon it had felt like our home too. People had been so friendly and he was happy. Maybe this place was the same.

  “Now.” Mrs. Hall cleared her throat and handed me a checklist. “If you’d just go through every name on the list here. These are the ones we signed up for your music class. Follow the hall all the way to the end, the two double doors will lead to the rec room where a piano is waiting. Enjoy yourself, honey.”

  With shaking hands I took the clipboard and quickly counted the names. Twenty people. Twenty had signed up for my class. It was supposed to be fun, you know, teach everyone a song, give them an instrument like a cow bell and then be on my way.

  But twenty?

  It was going to be a lot harder than I thought.

  I followed the hall all the way to the end, opened the doors and took a soothing breath before walking into the room.

  The smell of chocolate chip cookies filled the air, making me feel less afraid. Food always did that — there was a certain comfort that came along with it. Cookies made me
think of home — homemade me think of my mom and Eric, and thinking of them made me feel safe, protected, and strong. I could be strong now, just like Mom had been strong for us.

  Several of the patients were already sitting in chairs. A few were in wheelchairs. My heart broke.

  “Um, hi,” I said in a quiet voice. “I’m going to be your teacher for the music workshop.”

  “Speak up!” an elderly man called out. “Can’t hear you back here!”

  He was in the front row.

  Clearing my throat, I spoke again. “My name’s Saylor and — ”

  “Do you sail?” A girl in the front clapped her hands and then jumped to her feet and turned around to face the patients. “I love sailing! Who else loves sailing?”

  Nobody said anything.

  With a happy sigh, she sat back down and started talking to herself. “Sail, sail, sail. How I wish I could still sail. Nice to meet you, Saylor!”

  She said my name so loudly that if the elderly man hadn’t caught it that time, there really wasn’t any hope for him — ever.

  “As I said…” I offered a weak smile. “I’m Saylor and—”

  I was losing them.

  Already the eyes were glazing over. I knew some of the patients had memory issues, others struggled with mental handicaps, and I was boring them to tears.

  Screw it. I raised my hand, “Who wants to make noise?”

  “Me! Me! Me!” The girl from the front jumped into the air and started dancing while cheers erupted around her.

  “Awesome.” I smiled and started handing out the different instruments. I had recorders — you know, like the plastic looking flutes you get in fifth grade music class — a cow bell, a miniature piano, a harmonica, and three drums.

  Yeah, we weren’t going to be winning any Grammy’s, but I had tried to pick out instruments I knew Eric would like, and although he hated loud noises, he was totally okay with being the one making them.

  Last year Mom had bought him a drum set.

  My ears had been recovering ever since.

  “I want drums!” The old man got up from his seat, hobbled toward me, jerked the sticks right out of my hands, and brought the small drum back to his seat, smiling the whole time like I’d just given him a new hearing aid.

  The girl who liked sailing picked out the recorder.

  It took me fifteen minutes to get all the instruments out, mainly because every time I offered one, someone else piped up that they wanted it. I broke the groups up. The recorders sat in one section, the drums in another, and so forth.

  “What about Princess?” a voice asked.

  I turned around and scanned the room, squinting as I tried to identify the person who had spoken.

  “Over here,” she said smoothly, her voice was high-pitched but really pretty and clear, almost childlike.

  I turned to my right and noticed a girl in a wheelchair sitting in the corner. She had really long blonde hair pulled back into a scrunchie and was wearing an Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.

  Her smile reminded me of Eric, innocent and hopeful. Her hands were laid out in front of her, lifeless, and there was a bumper on either side of her head, keeping her facing forward.

  “What would you like to play?” I took a few steps toward her. “I have drums left, but if you have any ideas I can get you something else.”

  “Guitar.” Her mouth fell open a bit, as if she couldn’t control it, and then her smile returned. “I want to play guitar like my Parker.”

  “Parker?” I repeated, my smile widening. “And who is this Parker?”

  “Oh.” Her eyes were bright, but there were dark circles underneath them like she hadn’t gotten much rest in the past decade. “He’s my best friend.”

  “Best friends are nice,” I said softly, the words clogging my throat as I watched her mouth fall open again and then close. Her eyes struggled to focus on me and then she blinked a few times, like she was clearing cobwebs.

  “Guitar.” She coughed softly. “I want to play Parker’s guitar.”

  “Guitar it is.” I looked down at her hands. They weren’t moving; she had to be paralyzed. How the heck was I going to get her to play guitar if she couldn’t move her hands?

  “Ask Miss Janice, she’ll bring it out.”

  “Miss Janice…” I stood to my full height, put my hands on my hips, and searched around the room, reading each nametag as I went.

  “Red hat.” The girl said. “It’s a big red hat.”

  “Huh?”

  My eyes fell on a red hat, then the nametag. Janice. “Be right back.”

  I jogged over. “Hey, I’m Saylor, a freshman at UW. I’m teaching the music workshop, and that girl over there said something about a guitar.”

  The woman’s smile fell as her lips pressed into a thin line. “Yes, well, she can’t play it. It’s not hers.”

  “But she said something about a Parker. Would he mind, you think?”

  Janice’s eyes softened. “Honey, that girl is very special to Parker. It doesn’t take much to set her off, and when she remembers she can’t play guitar or even move her hands — she’s going to lose it. It’s near impossible to calm her down.”

  “But maybe if I just brought the guitar over—”

  “I’m sorry. No.” The woman offered a sad smile before walking away.

  Well, crap.

  Empty-handed I returned to the girl. “What’s your name anyways?”

  “Princess.” She giggled and then coughed a bit, her face struggling to get the cough out. Like her body wasn’t strong enough to actually use the muscles needed for such a strenuous action.

  “Okay, Princess.” I leaned down so we were face to face. “Martha’s grouchy today.”

  She giggled more.

  “So we have to do something illegal.”

  Her eyes grew wide as saucers. “What are we going to do?”

  “We…” My voice fell to a whisper. “…Are going to steal a guitar.”

  “Oh yes!” Her neck strained as her head moved back and forth. “Yes! Can we, please? Parker would laugh so hard. He would laugh. I miss his laugh.” Her smile fell, her face clouded.

  “Hey.” I touched her arm even though I knew she couldn’t feel it. “Why don’t I put you on look out? If anyone sees me steal the guitar, or if they’re watching. I want you to yell, ‘Ahoy Matey!’”

  That did it.

  Fits of laughter poured out of her. “You’re really funny.”

  “Glad someone thinks so.” I winked. Gosh, she reminded me so much of Eric it made my heart clench. I missed that kid.

  “Okay,” she whispered. “I yell Ahoy Matey if anyone looks, but you have to be fast.”

  “Deal.” I tapped her arm again. “Now where do they keep the guitar?”

  “Shh.” Her lips squeezed together, her eyes darted back and forth and then with a small smile she said. “They keep it by the toys. It’s in a box labeled Parker.”

  Yeah, I was so going to get into trouble. But the poor girl deserved to be able to play something!

  I gave her a salute and snuck over to the toy section. The guitar wasn’t really hidden. It was in a really nice case labeled Parker. Easy.

  I reached down and unlocked the case, letting out a gasp as my fingers fell on one of the most expensive guitars I’d ever seen in real life.

  The Fender Stratt had beautiful carvings for an acoustic, almost like it had been made specifically for this Parker guy.

  “Ahoy! Ahoy!” A loud voice jolted me out of my trance.

  “Busted.” Another voice followed. I knew that voice. With a muffled curse I turned around and slowly looked up.

  Gabe.

  Princess was right next to him in her chair giggling. “I did it! I warned you!”

  “Forgot the Matey part.” I winked, trying to lighten the mood.

  “Oh, sorry.” She cleared her throat. “Ahoy Matey!”

  Gabe’s eyes narrowed.

  “It’s uh…” I tucked my hair behind my
ear. “Because I’m a Saylor.”

  “Caught that.”

  “So…” I stood, my knees cracking as I rose to my full height which still only met Gabe at his chest.

  “Stealing?” He crossed his arms, muscles bulged beneath his long sleeve gray shirt.

  “Sharing.” I shrugged. “She wanted to play, and I didn’t think it was fair that she’d be left out. Isn’t that right, Princess?”

  Princess ignored me completely. Instead, her eyes were for Gabe, and only Gabe.

  “Besides,” I said with fake confidence. “I don’t see your name anywhere on that bad boy.”

  He smirked and pushed back his hair. It looked lighter than normal. Did he dye it? Why would he dye it darker? Was he into Goth or what?

  “Princess,” Gabe said, turning. “Did you want to play the guitar?”

  “Oh yes, please. Just like you.”

  Crap. He played guitar, sang, and played piano. Great, so he was basically like sex on a platter for a girl like me. If he were ugly, I’d still be panting after him like a lost puppy.

  Music people were weird.

  Gabe’s eyes didn’t leave mine. “Not right now, Princess. I think your teacher’s right, though I frown upon her methods.” I rolled my eyes. “You should learn to play.”

  “Yay!” Her head moved back and forth a bit, and then some saliva fell from her lips.

  Gabe gently leaned over and used part of her sweatshirt to wipe the wetness away. “Wearing my favorite sweatshirt, beautiful?”

  “You noticed!” She beamed.

  “I always notice what you wear,” he whispered, then pressed a kiss to her forehead. She coughed, earning a concerned look from Gabe. “How about I grab the guitar and bring it over and you can join the rest of the group. You hum the song and I’ll play it, sound good?”

  “Like a team.” Her mouth gaped as she stared at his eyes.

  “We’re always going to be a team, Princess.” Gabe gently helped close her mouth and then wheeled her over to the rest of the group taking the guitar with him.

  I was cemented to the ground. Was he stalking me now? Why was he here? And how did he know the girl?