My heart stutters—once, twice—slowing like it’s trudging through wet cement.
My vision tunnels, shrinking the world into a dark, suffocating pinhole.I keep my eyes open by sheer rage, by sheer need, by the one thought still screaming in my skull:
Don’t go under.Jake still needs you.
But fentanyl doesn’t care.It kills one system at a time like a patient executioner.
Through the haze, I hear Jake groan—a broken, wet sound that slashes through my chemical fog like a blade.The drug whispers that it would be so easy to just let go, but I know what this is—the devil doesn't need to make you evil to destroy you.
He just needs to make you quit.
I try to scream his name, try to tell him to stay down, to play dead, anything to keep Monty from noticing he's conscious.But my vocal cords won't respond.All I can do is watch in horror as Jake struggles to his knees, his head is bleeding and he looks as pale as a ghost.
Monty turns at the sound and smiles.
Move, now!Get the fuck up Nate!
Nothing but silence from my body.
I forget about the knife wound in my side until I feel a sudden throb, but even that pain feels distant now.I can feel blood seeping out, warm and sticky against my shirt, but I can't do anything about it.
Can't press my hand to the wound, can't call for help, can't even shift my weight to slow the bleeding.
I somehow manage to turn my head to see Jake and instead of backing away, something changes in his expression.
Pure rage.
Pure determination.
Despite the blood loss, despite his wounds, he launches himself at Monty with everything he has left.
No!
I watch in horror as my little brother claws at Monty's face.His fingers rake across skin, drawing blood, and for a moment I think he might actually hurt the bastard.
But Jake's weakened from blood loss, and Monty recovers quickly, shoving him back.
It happens quickly.
The sound doesn't just hit my ears—it detonates inside my skull, inside my chest, inside every cell of my being.
Time fractures.
The world splits in half.
Everything that came before this moment becomes meaningless, and everything that comes after becomes unthinkable.
I watch Jake's body jerk from the impact, watch him double over as the bullet tears through his abdomen, and something inside me breaks so completely that I can feel the pieces scattering through my bloodstream like glass.
But I can't move.
Can't scream.
Can't do anything but lie here, paralyzed, as my little brother crumples to the floor and starts dying six feet away from me.
The fentanyl has turned my body into a tomb, but my mind—my mind is hyperaware, crystal clear, recording every horrific detail with surgical precision.
I can hear the exact sound Jake makes when he hits the ground—a soft, wet thud that will echo in whatever's left of my soul forever.I can see the exact way his hands move to the wound, trying to hold himself together, trying to stop the bleeding that's already soaking through his shirt.
