After I Wake (18 page)

“We'd all like to find out the same.” Darcy laughs a little. “People are curious as to why Emmett cares so much about you when no one else did.”

“Well, that's it, isn't it? He cared about me when nobody did.” I feel a rush of affection for Emmett for being such a good person, and I find myself wishing again, not for the first time, that I could be more like Emmett. He's just so damn positive, it's almost nauseating, but it's really a good thing, and he's a good person.

The bell rings, and I jump a little. Darcy hugs Harper for a moment and then disappears, and I am left with Harper, and I smile awkwardly, baring my teeth somewhat like a shark, but Harper compares me to her favorite supervillain, so I stop and stand up. I resolve to find Emmett after school because he doesn't like missing school, and this is the fourth day he's been gone, not counting Monday in New York, and I am so worried.

Harper walks with me back to civics, and we are both quiet. I look down at her, because Harper is not the tallest, but from what little I know of her, she's five feet even of concentrated sass and kind of a cool person.

School bores me, but because it's my first day back I can't justifiably doze off. Dozing off in school tends to be frowned on anyways, so I force myself to stay awake, working my jaw around a piece of gum, trying to extract some semblance of flavor from it.

The day finally draws to a close, and I rush through the halls and onto the bus after a hurried good-bye to Harper and Darcy. Darcy invited Harper and me to her house, and though I was almost tempted, I don't think I should be exposed to people for too long. Besides, I need to see Emmett.

I get home, and my mom surprises me with cookies, a first-day-of-school tradition, and I can't help but laugh because the littlest things can make you feel so strange. I eat only one before ripping a plate from the cabinet and piling cookies onto it. I ask my mom to cover them in plastic wrap so I can go to Emmett's house.

I was planning on getting my license months ago, but certain circumstances got in the way, and I have to rely on a ride from my mom. I bounce up and down in the seat as we go over main roads and into the winding back roads that border on the forest with the now thawed river, which I frown upon because my hand died there, but it's where Emmett lives, and he has a cool house, so I have to swallow back the bile that immediately rises in my throat, in much the same fashion it does every time we go near the forest for any reason.

Soon enough, my mom pulls up in front of Emmett's house. His father's car is parked in the driveway, but his mother's car is not. I slide out of the car and land awkwardly on my feet and turn around to grab the cookies.

“Please stay here, just in case. I don't think I'll be long.” I close the car door softly and walk to the front door and precariously balance the cookies on my elbow and knock on the front door quickly before grabbing the plate as it begins to slip.

The door opens a little, and Emmett's ridiculously tall dad looks down at me.

“Hi, Mr. Lewis, is Emmett around? He wasn't in school today, and I finally was, so I'm worried because I missed him.”

“Oh, Carter, hello!” The smile on his face is not real. I know because I have become an expert on false smiles in the past months. “I didn't know you were going back to school.”

“Oh,” I echo him, a tad uncomfortably. “I made, er, sorry, I brought cookies, my mom made them. Is Emmett here?”

“Yeah, he is, but he's not awake. I mean he's asleep. I think he's sick.” By his unshaven face and the coffee stain on his collar, I don't think either of them are handling the situation well.

“He's awake. He was staring at me when I walked up the driveway.” I start to gesture upward, but I almost lose the cookies, so I stop.

“Oh,” says Mr. Lewis again.

“Can I talk to him?” I lean back and look up to Emmett's bedroom window. He's pulled aside the curtains and is staring at me. There are bags under his eyes, and they are glazed over. I'm not sure he even recognizes me, and that scares me out of my wits.

“Uh, probably, then. I don't see why not.” Emmett's father steps back from the door and pulls it open, declining a cookie and disappearing into the kitchen. I lean against the doorframe and politely hold my breath. The entire house smells like old coffee and gaseous release and also a strong lack of deodorant. I want to be home, but I need to know if Emmett is okay. I sincerely doubt it.

Emmett's dad crosses the living room without the cookies and mounts the stairs. The door opens and Emmett slips out of his room and closes the door behind him. I look back over my shoulder at my mom, giving them a moment of privacy, biting my lip and raising my eyebrows in worry. My mom smiles at me a little bit, encouragingly. Soft words float down the stairs, but their exchange becomes heated, and the volume increases and they speak quickly.

“Leave me the fuck alone!” Emmett screams, and I jump. I've never heard Emmett scream. The door slams and the windows rattle in their panes, and I take an involuntary step back. Emmett's dad schlepps down the stairs and vaguely gestures to the ceiling.

“He, uh, says no.” I nod, still feeling incredibly uncomfortable. Emmett's told me in the past that his mother tended to be stricter, and his dad wasn't that good at parenting, but he was supportive. I don't know what to do. I never feel this lost. I turn to my mom and hold up one finger, waiting for her affirmative nod, and step into the house, brushing by Emmett's dad with a soft “Excuse me.” I march up the stairs, balling my hand into a fist and pounding on his door angrily.

“Emmett!” I yell. The only response is the click of the lock in the door. “Not fucking cool! Where are you? I need you!”

“You need me? You need
me
? Carter, I've been there for you every goddamn day for months, and in my goddamn fucking hour of need you need me?” The door is ripped open suddenly. I didn't even hear the lock click open.

Emmett stands there, panting in anger. I look over his shoulder. Every photo in his room is smashed on the floor. Glass litters his carpet, and there is a portrait of his family, just him and his parents, with his mother ripped out of the photo and shredded into small pieces that are littered amongst the shards. Emmett isn't wearing shoes or a shirt and his sweatpants slouch at a disturbingly low height. They look like they are about to fall down, and I, for one, would really rather not see what's underneath. His hair is matted in some places and sticking straight up in others. There are massive bags under his eyes, and they are rimmed in red. Though he's always been small, at least from the time I met him to the present, Emmett's ribs are almost visible. It seems like he's dropped a lot of weight in the past week. The worst part is the smell, the entire awful stink of the house concentrated and emanating from his room. My mouth drops open into a small O of shock.

“Leave.” His voice, which moments ago was loud enough to make anyone else quake in fear, has quieted to a deathly calm that is scarier than when he was yelling. “I want you to leave, now.” He points to the front door, and I see something that I never expected to see on Emmett, and I can feel my heart shattering into a million little pieces as I see the long, thin, and scabbed over red line extending from his wrist almost to his elbow. He catches me staring and lowers his arm quickly, but the damage is done, and I am wildly infuriated.

“You stupid fucking asshole, what the fuck is wrong with you?” I launch myself at Emmett, pummeling at his chest with my arms, both my arms, asking what the fuck is wrong with him, and he steps backward until he sits down on his bed, and I step back, tears streaming down my face, feeling the worst betrayal there is in the world.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” I repeat it again, chanting it like a mantra. “Emmett, why? Why? What in the world would make you do such a thing?” I'm sobbing, and I can't help it. I yank one of my sleeves up, thrusting my arm into his face.

“Look at this!” I scream at him. “Look at it!” I practically slap him with my forearm. “Why in the world do you do that? It only gets worse, don't you understand?” I pull the shirt down over my shoulder and he gasps at the fresh cut because he saw my shoulders at the Poetry Accolades and unlike now, they were clear, and we both know it, but I'm not done screaming at him.

“Emmett, goddamn it, Emmett, it's so fucking hard to get better, and you're never free. Don't you get it? It's as bad as drugs. You get addicted to slicing open your own skin and then it fucks you up for the rest of your life, Emmett, no, no, no.” I crouch down into the fetal position in the doorway and cover my head with my arms and full out sob, for myself and Emmett.

I recover soon enough, my phone vibrates in my pocket, and I have to answer my mom's call and tell her through my hiccupping sobs I'll be out in a minute. I stand up slowly, looking at Emmett with an anger and hate I didn't know I possessed, and speak, calmly, with unbridled rage radiating throughout me.

“You stupid son of a bitch. I'm going to be back tomorrow with trash bags to help you pick up your life, and then I'm done. I don't want you to talk to me anymore. Enjoy the fucking cookies.” I turn and leave his room, running down the stairs, fleeing. I trip on a rock in the driveway and land, instinctively putting my arms out to brace my fall, tearing skin off my wrist and hand and filling the raw skin with dirt and driveway grit. There is a small jolt as the impact of my wrist hitting the ground grinds against my shoulder. I don't even notice it as I get up and get in the car. Emmett watches me from his window, his chest red from my hand, and his father watches from the doorway, impassive.

My stump burns, and I hiss in pain. It's pooling with small droplets of blood in the way it does when you get a rug burn or, apparently, a driveway burn. My hand is reacting similarly, and both my arms sting like a motherfucker. I have to wash them out. I focus on that, brushing my hand and wrist on my shirt, smearing blood droplets and gravel on it. I'm not that much of a fan of the shirt anyway. I avoid looking at the ends of my arms in the car, not wanting to get triggered and cut myself in the middle of the night. My mom makes tutting noises, but I have withdrawn inside myself, turning just as impassive as Emmett's father. For the moment, there are no more tears.

I spend the car ride home staring out the window and numbly telling my mother everything. My mom is quiet, asking if I want her to do anything. I say no, because I'm still holding on to a little bit of faith that Emmett and his father can fix things. I spend the night trying to sweep up the remnants of my heart, but it's gone, and I don't want it back. I don't want a heart with Emmett's overly supportive fingerprints all over it.

I cut again when the sun sets and my mother goes to bed. I go for my thighs this time, because it's easier to hide. With each swipe at my skin with the small razor, I bite my lip. I don't want to be cutting, but I can't help it. I'm broken again and defaulting back to everything I know.

 

 

A
S
MUCH
as I don't want to, I suffer through most of my homework the next day. It's quick and painless, but I'm sure it's only because the real pain is going to come later when I help Emmett pick up his life.

I finish, and my mom drives me to Emmett's. There's a box of heavy-duty trash bags in the backseat. After the obligatory uncomfortable holding of my breath and shifting around in my seat as we pass the forest, we pull up to the house. I secure my phone in my pocket and the trash bags under my left armpit and march to the door, deftly avoiding the rock I tripped on yesterday. I take a moment to stop and kick it very hard. There is no time to trip and be awkward and miserable. I am here on a mission, and I already discussed everything with my mother.

I knock on the door and then jiggle the handle. There is no answer, save for Emmett looking at me from his window, still without a shirt, the red marks on his chest having bruised into a very light purple. I feel bad about that.

The door is locked, so I knock louder and more insistently. A shadow appears behind the fancy glass window thing that decorates the upper half of the door, and I stand on my toes to try and see in. There is still no answer.

Finally, I put down the box of trash bags and pull out my phone, texting Emmett. The phone beeps moments later, telling me the message was not delivered, so I assume his phone is dead and that he has not charged it. I sit down and wait, my mom idling in the driveway. I've anticipated Emmett not letting me in, but I'm ready and prepared to bother him until he lets me in. I cross my legs.

It's nonviolent, noncooperation, doing things Gandhi style. I don't do anything wild and out of control that could hurt someone, but I wouldn't be violent. I don't plan to be violent, anymore. But Emmett bruises easily anyways, and I wasn't intending on slapping him and hurting him. I didn't mean to attack him, but he was following me down a path I created that wasn't meant for anyone else. It's a path nobody should ever go down. Yet, I'm beginning to go down it again. Stupid path.

If Emmett tries to kick me out, though, I'm not going to go. They can't make me. I will sit and I will stay. I am the rock, and they cannot move me. I guess I'm more like a cumbersome boulder, but at the same time, I don't weigh all that much, and it would be fairly easy to move me, so I probably am the rock. I am the Gandhi rock, and I am the coolest Gandhi rock.

It only takes ten minutes of me being the Gandhi rock for Emmett to open the door, which is good because my ass is sore from sitting on the little pebbles in his driveway. The door is opened silently, and I don't even notice it at first, but it opens all the same, and so I get up and breeze in past Emmett, with the garbage bags once again in my clutches as I brush annoying little rocks off my jeans. I don't even care that they're in his carpet now. He deserves it.