Toxic (Better Than You) (19 page)

             
“Don’t ever talk to me again. Don’t ever think about me again. As far as I’m concerned, you don’t exist. You never existed. You’re nothing to me.”

             
“Don’t say that, Lo. I’m sorry…”

             
“I need a ride home, officer. If you don’t mind.” My voice is cold, detached. He looks confused for a moment before he understands what I’m asking. Not to be taken to
his
home, but to
my
home. Mom’s house. The only place I have left to go. The one place I never wanted to go back to.

             
The car ride is quiet, tense. Nathan glances at me every so often but I keep my eyes focused on the scenery flying by us. I keep my mind focused on the effort it takes to keep the tears from spilling, to keep the hurt inside. All I know is that I need something to make me forget, to make me numb. I can’t say that I loved Nathan. I didn’t know him long enough. But he cared, he asked questions, he offered help and followed through with it when not once had anyone else done those things. And in return I trusted him with something that Danny had ripped from me. Hoped he could make me better, make
everything
better.

             
But he didn’t. He lied to me, used me, made decisions for me. I didn’t
need
his help. I didn’t ask for his concern.

             
The car rolls to a stop in front of Mom’s house; he knows where it is without asking. He’s been here. The thought leaves me with shame and anger so hot it burns through my stomach.

             
“Logan, you don’t have to stay here. You can come back-”

             
“No, thank you, officer,” I interrupt with a polite smile. It’s hard to hold it in place. My heart is beating furiously. My eyes burn with unshed tears. It’s all I can do to keep my hand from shaking as I open the car. Take a step onto the dead grass. A hand on my arm stops me, but I don’t turn around. I won’t let him see the betrayal I feel, let him know that he mattered to me.

             
“I’m so sorry, Lo. So sorry. Please don’t stay here.” He’s begging me, his voice thin and tight.
Is he crying, too?
But it doesn’t matter. I’ve made my decision and if there’s one thing I am, it’s stubborn. I gave up the fight to keep good in my life a long time ago and Nathan is no exception. The fact that I can still associate him with good after what he’s done proves that I need to walk away. So I do. I walk across the withered lawn, up the eroding cement steps, knock on the rotting wood door. Hold my breath and count. I make it to sixteen before the door swings open.

             
“Hi, Dave.”

April 27, 2009

             
Mom and Dave are gone a lot. I don’t know where they go or when they leave or when they come back. I’m so high most of the time that it’s any wonder I remember to do things like eat and shower. My room has become my safe haven, even if it’s not really mine at all. Mom’s shit is everywhere, like she’s become some kind of hoarder in the years that I’ve been away. I was hoping she kept some of my things from when it was my room, but the only things left are the dollar store glow-in-the-dark stars on the ceiling. She probably didn’t see them. Even the drawing stuff I had stashed underneath the bed is gone. It was the first thing I checked for. It only hurts for a second before I slam that box shut and never touch it again.

             
I’m sitting in my room, staring at the ceiling and counting the stars for the one thousandth time when I hear the front door swing open. There’s fumbling footsteps and muttered curses before I turn my eyes back to the ceiling and ignore the commotion. What I assume is only ten minutes later, when in reality could be an hour later, I realize that I’m starving. Quietly, I sit up from my bed and listen to the sounds of the house. Nothing. I slip on my flip-flops and grab my car keys and wallet out of my purse. It’s moments like these that I’m glad I had the job at the bar. The little savings I built up have been enough to keep me fed the past couple of weeks. And thanks to Mom, the drugs have flowed freely. All in all, it’s not such a bad setup.

             
Except for Dave. He’s the reason I stay holed up in my room. He’s the reason that I am tip-toeing out of the house right now. If I was being honest with myself, I’d say that it’s pretty dumb for me to be so high all the time, so out of touch with my body and the way it moves. But I’m nothing but dishonest and therefore don’t think twice about anything but numbing myself to the world.

             
The house is small, with only a living room and kitchen that overlook each other, and one hall leading to the bedrooms and bathroom. If anyone is in the house, they can be seen immediately. Which is why it comes as a surprise when I don’t notice Dave in the kitchen until I’m at the end of the hall. He’s watching me silently with an amused look on his face. When he’s sober enough, he can put on faces like it’s his job and this one sends a chill up my spine. My mind is screaming at me to run; for the door, back to my room,
anywhere
. But while my mind may be sober enough to relay those messages, my body is not sober enough to comply. I feel sluggish, weak, out of control. It seems to be the story of my life.

             
“Where’s Mom?” I ask him, my voice sounding drawn out and heavy.

             
“Out,” is all he says. I notice him take a step, and I notice that he seems much closer than he was a few seconds ago but I don’t know how many steps he’s taken since the question left my lips. It’s like everything is moving in increments. First here, then there, then much too close.

             
“Don’t,” is all I can manage to whisper. A wicked smile curves his lips because he finds enjoyment in the fact that I know exactly what he has planned. Before his smile even has the chance to permeate my drug fog, he pounces, like a lion after its prey. And I have nowhere to go. He reaches for the back of my head, grabs my hair. Pulls hard so that my face is towards the ceiling. My knees buckle from the pain. It shoots right into my brain, past the shit that was fogging it up four seconds ago.

             
My fingers clench around the keys in my hand and suddenly I have an idea. I position it just right, and then propel my arm up towards the soft skin on his neck. The key sinks in with a sickening
squish
and I scream as his hand rips away from my head, my long hair still grasped in his fist. My feet fly forward, pushing past him clumsily, but he somehow latches onto my ankle and I tumble to the ground face first. Trying to free his grip, I kick my leg. A crack and a scream let me know that I’ve connected with something, and then I pull my leg out of his hand and attempt to stand. The door is right there. If I reach out I could probably touch it. I don’t get the chance, though, because his body slams into mine and we collapse onto the plastic kitchen floor.

             
This is not going to happen. This is not going to happen. This is not going to happen.

             
It doesn’t matter that I don’t believe in God. It doesn’t matter that I think I’m a shitty person. I pray hard and I fight against Dave even harder. Squirm and kick and wriggle around so fiercely that his arms around me loosen. It only takes a second. I know exactly where I left the knife and I’m asking God to grant me a miracle and let it still be there all these years later. The drawer opens. I reach in blindly, feel the cold metal on my fingertips.

             
Thank you thank you thank you.

             
And then everything happens in slow motion. I feel Dave grab my hair again, feel him pull it sharply so that my neck is exposed. His breath tickles my skin and then his teeth bite into me and I close my eyes and prepare myself for what I am about to do. It takes a split second and a lot more force than I thought to plunge the knife into his temple. Without a sound, his body goes still, slumps against me. After the initial shock of the jarring impact of metal against skin, I realize how easily it could have been to miss him and instead stab myself. Maybe God does exist. Maybe he cares after all.

             
No. If he cared, I wouldn’t have been given the chance to kill a man.

             
With weak arms, I push his body away. It slinks to the ground with a definitive thud. The only sound in the room is my breathing. My legs barely hold my weight as I stand and walk to the door. I hardly notice the blood on my face and neck and hands and shirt. In fact, I don’t notice anything until I’m parked in front of the beach and realize I have nowhere to go. It wasn’t the first time I’ve left my mother’s house covered in blood but it sure as hell will be the last.

May 2, 2009

             
Dave’s face haunts my nightmares. I wake up screaming, covered in sweat, paralyzed by fear. The numbness that follows is so much stronger than any drug, but it’s not pleasant or wanted. I would do anything to forget the way the knife felt when sliding into his head; the way his body slumped to the ground, lifeless and empty. After the fourth night of waking up with a raw throat, I listen to Sam’s advice and take a sleeping pill. The next morning, I wake up drowsy, sluggish. It’s the perfect excuse to snort a roxie and stay in bed, but my stomach is begging for food so I trudge into the kitchen. Sam’s leaning against the counter with a bowl of cereal and when she sees me, she grabs a bowl from the cabinet and hands it to me. I smile and pour cheerios and milk into my bowl before leaning next to her.

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened?” Sam asks
offhandedly.

Swirling the cheerios around in my bowl, I think about her question.
I owe her a lot and part of me feels like that includes an explanation as to why I showed up covered in blood, but the other part of me never wants to let her know just how fucked up I am. Right now she’s letting me stay with her and Brody, wear her clothes, eat their food. If I tell her that I killed a man, that it was
his
blood on my hands, she might make me leave. I know I’ve said it before, but I
really
have nowhere else to go now.

             
“Sam, it’s nothing personal. I just- I don’t want to talk about it.”

             
She nods her head. “Okay. I’m here whenever you’re ready.”

             
I won’t ever be ready
, I think. “Thanks, Sam. For everything.”

             
“You’d do it for me.” She smiles at me and then shakes her head. “Anyways, a friend of Brody’s is having a party tonight. You’re coming.”

             
I sigh. “Sam, I don’t think-”

             
“It’ll be fine, Lo. No one knows about these parties except the few people who are invited. It’s kind of like a Fight Club thing.” She waves her hand in the air. “You know,
the first rule of fight club is; you do not talk about fight club.
”

             
I scrunch my forehead at her. “Fight Club?”

             
“The movie? With Brad Pitt? Tell me you’ve seen it.” When I shake my head no, she clutches at her heart dramatically. “My God, where have you been? Living under a rock?”

             
I can’t help but smile. “Something like that.”

             
“Well, there’s not really any fighting at our party. We like to call it a pharm party.” She wiggles her eyebrows at me suggestively.

             
“Can you stop talking in code, please? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

             
Sam laughs, grabs my empty bowl and dumps it into the sink. “Pharm, like pharmaceuticals. It’s a party dedicated to our best friends.”

             
Oh.
“So what do you do at this
pharm
party?”

             
She looks at me like I have a third eye. “Get high. Duh. I think that’s what Nathan thought he was busting, but we changed plans at the last minute.”

             
“Whatever happened with that, anyways?” I ask, trying to sound like Nathan’s name doesn’t squeeze my heart.

             
“Well, mostly everybody was clean except for Danny,” she pauses, looks at me carefully like she’s waiting for a reaction, “and some other kid he deals with. They have court dates set and from what I’m hearing, it’s not looking good.”

             
“Did Danny and Nathan know each other?” I hold my breath, waiting for her answer, wondering how much she knows and how much she’s kept from me.

             
“Danny’s the one who invited him to that first party.”

             
I think back to the interview I had with Nathan, how he told me I wasn’t a very safe bet but hired me anyways. It wasn’t because he had faith in me. He knew I was Danny’s girlfriend. As soon as he read my application, he knew he was going to hire me. It was all a setup. “Well, I guess that kinda blew up in his face.”