Almost Broken Up (Almost Bad Boys) (2 page)

I stretch my hand, and my jaw tightens. I’m angry with her. This time she pushed too far. Maybe she wanted to piss me off for kicks. Or maybe she’s not even aware of what she’s doing. I don’t know what drug invention she took this time. But she chased it with tons of booze before I could intervene. I left her only for a moment to take a piss. When I came back to the room, she was wrapped around that guy.
 

She let him get all over her, grinding into him, kissing him, pressing him into her. I punched the punk in the face. I probably broke his nose, but I didn’t give a fuck. She ran. She laughed and ran. This time I’ll grab her and shake her hard. We’ll talk. Being responsible for Faith as if she was a child and not a grown woman is one thing. But letting her piss on our relationship is quite another. I’m putting a stop to it. She needs professional help. I can’t do it anymore. I ball my fists and feel my face twist in anger.

My hand closes on her shoulder. She shrieks, swings her arm, and hits me in the face with the bottle, red wine spraying from it in my eyes. My vision goes black from the blow, and I fall down to the ground. A sharp, burning pain shoots from my forehead all the way through my brain and into the back of my head. It spreads down to my spine, forcing air from my lungs with an oomph sound.
 

I hear her scream continuously. It’s like a nightmarish song—high-pitched and wild. There are words, but I can’t comprehend them. My ears feel stuffed with cotton. No, maybe I’m under water? And then the realization crashes down on me—Faith has her car keys. She took them from my pocket and ran. She’s drunk to the point of half-consciousness. And she’s running toward her car! Fuck! My stomach clamps in alarm, and I know I have to stop her.

I scramble up from the ground, grunting in pain and confusion that still churns in my head. A warm, sticky liquid slides down from my forehead and over the bridge of my nose. I’m on my hands and knees, shaking my head to clear it from the muddy blizzard inside. I touch my face, and my fingers come out covered with blood. I have a cut on my forehead from where she hit me with the bottle.
 

I stand up, wobbly. The bile rushes up to my throat, but I won’t let it threaten its way out. Faith. Where is she? It’s starting to rain, hard; just like that. I welcome the sensation on my burning skin. The rain washes off some of the blood and dirt from my face. I stumble forward.
 

“Faith!” I roar. “Faaaaaaaaith!” I shake my head again and blink my eyes. Fuck, my head hurts, and I don’t know if it’s only from the blow she gave me, or if the alcohol adds to the throbbing. Or maybe she slipped some shit into my drink. That is also a possibility. I touch the wound again, this time with the back of my hand. The blood continues to flow, and my hand comes back with a thick smear of a bright-red on it. I feel like retching, but I have to find Faith first.
 

I run, despite the carousel in my head. I take mouthfuls of air and force my muscles to obey me. I am a fast runner but not now. What’s happening? I feel as if I’m running in the water. I see Faith reaching her tiny beat-up car and collapsing on the hood. She scrambles up, swaying and shouting out some crazy song. She tilts her head back and takes a gulp of wine from the bottle.
 

“Faaaaaaaith!” I roar. “Wait!”
 

My lungs burn, but I run. She walks to the driver’s side of the car, opens the door, and flops down onto the seat. I’m almost there. The engine whines but doesn’t start. She tries again and again. I reach for the passenger’s door and scramble in. “Fuck! Faith, what the hell are you doing?”
 

Before I can completely get in, the car lurches forward, and I almost fall out. I yell, and she screams angrily, “Leave me alone, Colin! You’re not my daddy, are you?” Her eyes are unfocused, and her head swivels on her neck. She accelerates, and I drag myself inside, slamming the door closed.
 

“Stop, please stop, Faith. You want me to go? I’ll go. I’ll leave you be. I promise. Just stop the car. You shouldn’t drive—”

“Shut up!” she screeches, and I see the confusion on her face as if she’s not completely here.
 

Quickly, I buckle my seatbelt and reach across to grab hers. But she pushes me away. Hard, snarling. The car dances on the street in some dreadful zigzag pattern.
 

I stretch my arms behind my seat and grasp the back of it, trying to stay put. “Stop the car, Faith. You’re gonna kill us!”

“Fuck you.” She brings the bottle to her lips, tilts her head, and the car swerves into the oncoming traffic. A black semi blares its horn. The truck rushes at us.
 

I grab for the steering wheel, but it’s too late. The impact pushes my arm away. Our cries mix with the screech of twisting metal, and with the cacophony of horns. The bottle flies from Faith’s hands. Wine sloshes in a wide, red shower in the car. Her eyes are huge, scared. My throat stings from screaming, but I don’t stop. The windshield and the front side windows explode. Small bits of glass rain inside and outside the car.
 

The car flips over, and I cry out, “Faith! No!” Her tiny body catapults from the seat and through the driver’s side window. Her blood sprays everywhere. The seatbelt grips me tight.
 

I squeeze my eyes shut. My mouth is frozen, the muscles disobeying. The scream doesn’t end. My lungs burn. I force the air in them. I force it out. I have to breathe. The noise is unbearable. Oh, God, is this how it all ends? The car rolls once more. It stops rolling but it continues to shake. Or maybe I’m shaking? I’m quiet, I don’t scream anymore. I cry, sobbing uncontrollably. Is there anything that I can control now?
 

“Faith!” I struggle against the seatbelt. I hear voices. Many voices.
 

Someone falls onto their knees by my shattered window.
 

“Are you okay?” he asks frantically, touching my neck. The pulse. He’s looking for the pulse.
 

I force my eyes to open. Slowly I manage to turn my head toward him. “Faith?” I whisper.
 

His face contorts as if in pain. “You’re just a kid. How old are you?”

“Twenty one,” I whisper, blinking the tears from my eyes.
 

I sit on the pavement, wrapped in a blanket. I can’t stop shaking. The red-and-blue lights of the emergency vehicles bother my eyes. Two paramedics are checking my vitals. One disinfects the cut on my forehead and wraps a bandage around my head.
 

The police are here too. An officer walks up to us and kneels down on one knee in front of me. He checks with the paramedics first. They tell him that I’m going to the hospital.
 

He looks at me. “What’s your name?”

“Colin Hampton.” My voice is hoarse. It hurts to talk. Must be from all that screaming in the car.
 

“How old are you, Colin?” the cop asks in a gentle tone.
 

I tell him, and he writes it down next to my name.
 

“Tell me what happened,” he asks.

I can’t sort this out. I don’t know what to say and what not. The paramedics already told me that Faith didn’t make it. I feel numb inside. I shiver under the blanket, and my teeth chatter.
 

The cop waits, eyeing me. What can I tell him about Faith right here, right now? What is that he wants to hear? That she was a girl from some tiny village? That her weirdo father kept her on a tight leash until she left for college? That she went crazy with all that freedom and welcomed the drug and booze addiction? That she never wanted to talk about her family because of what her uncle used to do to her? That her father never believed her, and so she suffered quietly until some mysterious circumstances put her uncle in jail? Leaving for college was her deliverance. But it was deliverance from only one problem and an open invitation to another.
 

What do I
really
know about Faith? I know she was a brilliant girl with an IQ that could open all kinds of academic doors for her. And that she was destined for so much more but didn’t even care. Faith—what
was
her fate? This? Not even nineteen years of life that ended in a drunken, drug-induced car crash? No, that wasn’t the Faith that I would want anyone to remember. That was just a hollow façade.
 

I wake up with the bed sheet still in my mouth. God only knows how it didn’t suffocate me. I wish it did. I see Faith’s glassy eyes, gazing at the sky, as if waiting for her own angel to descend and take her away. And then I think of my family—grandma Libby and her mother Helga. They don’t know. They have no idea my girlfriend is dead. I am such a son of a bitch, damn it. After the police interrogation, I left the dorm and drove off with only my wallet in my pocket. Maybe subconsciously I was driving back to Seattle where they live. They are my only family; the only women in my life that care about me.
 

I groan and fall off the bed. The carpet is stained, and I don’t want to know with what. It stinks like a mix of puke and piss. I push myself up, grasping onto the saggy mattress. My cell phone is dead, and I don’t have the battery charger. I walk to the small desk and pick up the phone. The handle is sticky, but I don’t care. I dial my home number and wait. I feel panic building up inside, gripping my heart, squeezing the breath out of me. I have to go. I have to run; somewhere, it doesn’t matter where. Away from here. I drop the phone, and I hear grandma Libby’s voice, “Hello.”

“Libby!” I scream. I’m down on the floor with my knees pushed against my chest. My arms circle my legs, and I begin to rock… back and forth… back and forth… back…

I think Libby is shouting my name, but I can’t be sure. My brain is shutting down again as if it was the end of some nightmarish movie. And the new movie starts playing right in front of my eyes— Faith runs away from me. She laughs and throws quick glances behind to see if I chase her…

The pounding on the door wakes me up. I wipe the drool off my face and rub my eyes.
 

“In a moment,” I rasp, and then clear my throat. I try again, “Just a sec!”

My clothes are rumpled and sweaty, but I don’t give a fuck. I open the door, and the bright morning sun blinds me. I shade my eyes with my hand. A teenage girl stands there, cell phone against her ear, one hand on her hip. She opens her mouth, but her expression changes from angry to confused. She glances at the number next to the door and starts to apologize, but I wave her off and close the door. I lock it too.