The sunrise swallows him, then the hill and the sky.
Suddenly I’m on my knees in the grass, screaming his name like I can drag him back by force of will alone.
The world blurs.
All I can feel is smoke in my throat and the sting chemicals in my arms.
That’s when the crushing, unbearable realization hits me: He’s not a memory.
He’s dying and I can’t get to him.
And somewhere in the distance, I can hear machines beeping.
CHAPTER33
INVISIBLE SHACKLES
NATE
One thousand and forty-seven dots.That's how many I've counted on this section of ceiling tile above my bed.The one with the water stain that looks like a bird with a broken wing.
Fitting, I guess.
My body feels like it's been turned inside out and scraped raw.Every muscle aches with this deep, bone-deep exhaustion that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The detox from whatever shit Monty pumped into me is like having the flu, food poisoning, and the worst hangover of your life all at once.My hands won't stop shaking, and there's this constant nausea rolling through my gut like a tide that never retreats.
The stab wound throbs with each heartbeat, a reminder of how close I came to bleeding out on that warehouse floor.
Sometimes I wish I had.
Would've been easier than this—lying here with invisible shackles wrapped around my mind, holding me prisoner in a body that won't cooperate and thoughts that won't shut the fuck up.
Jake's dead.
The words echo in my skull like a broken record, but they don't feel real.
Nothing feels real anymore.
It's like I'm watching my life through thick glass, everything muted and distorted.The grief sits in my chest like a stone, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
I haven't cried.
Not once.
Not when Mom told me, her voice breaking like glass.
Not when Nick came by yesterday, his eyes red-rimmed and lost.
Not when the nurses whispered about how sorry they were for my loss.
The tears are there, I can feel them building behind my eyes like a dam about to burst, but they won't come.Maybe I'm too empty.Maybe I've finally reached the bottom of whatever well I've been drawing from all these years.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I grip the bed rail until my knuckles go white.
The withdrawal symptoms are a special kind of hell—sweating one minute, shivering the next, muscles cramping like they're trying to tear themselves apart.My lungs still burn from the smoke, each breath a reminder of that burning building, of Jake's blood on my hands, of everything I couldn't save.
The door opens, and another white coat walks in.
