"Nate, please?—"
"I said get the fuck out!"The scream tears out of my throat, loud enough that I hear movement in the hallway outside.
The machines around my bed start beeping frantically as my heart rate spikes, and the stab wound in my stomach pulls tight with the force of my anger.
The door opens, and Dr.Fallows appears, his eyes moving between Mom and me, taking in the scene.
"Mrs.Sullivan, I think it's best if you leave now.Nate needs to rest."
Mom looks at me with those pleading eyes, the same ones she used to use when Scott was drunk and angry and I was the one standing between him and her.The same ones she used when she needed me to lie for her, to cover for her, to clean up her messes.
"I’m sorry," she whispers, but she's already moving toward the door.
She pauses at the threshold, her hand on the door handle.
"Jake was your brother in every way that mattered.And nothing can take that away."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I'm alone again.
Just me and the ceiling tiles and the steady beep of the machines that are keeping me tethered to this fucked-up excuse for a life.
I close my eyes and try to find that numbness again, that blessed emptiness that kept me from feeling anything.But it's gone now, replaced by this burning rage that sits in my chest like acid.
I hate this hospital, this bed, this fucking life that's built on lies and broken promises.
Most of all, I hate myself for believing her.For spending twenty-one years thinking I was part of a family when I was just the unwanted reminder of her mistakes.
The withdrawal symptoms are getting worse.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the bed rails, and there's this constant nausea rolling through my gut that makes me want to vomit.The stab wound throbs with each heartbeat, and my lungs still burn from the smoke.
Everything hurts, inside and out.
I try to go back to counting ceiling tiles, but the numbers jumble together in my head.
One thousand...something.
Fuck, what's the point anyway?
The tiles aren't going anywhere and neither am I, apparently.Stuck in this bed, in this room, in this life that doesn't even belong to me.
Jake's face swims in front of my eyes, and for a moment, the anger fades.He had Scott's eyes, I realize now.
The door opens again, and a nurse comes in to check on me.She's young, maybe early twenties, with kind eyes and gentle hands.She adjusts my IV, checks my bandages, makes notes on her tablet.
"How are you feeling?"she asks, and there's genuine concern in her voice.
I want to laugh.
How am I feeling?Is that a sick joke?
I don't say anything to her, I just stare at the ceiling and count the tiles until she leaves.
One thousand and sixty-three.One thousand and sixty-four.
The numbers don't mean anything, but they're something to hold onto.Something that doesn't lie or break promises or tear your world apart with a single sentence.
The fentanyl withdrawal is hitting hard now, making my skin crawl and my muscles ache.But I fight sleep, because sleep means dreams, and dreams mean seeing Jake's face, hearing his voice, remembering all the ways I failed him.
