Dion pulled up another dining chair and sat so his knees nearly touched Patrick’s. “Ian was a douchebag, a piece of shit. He lied to me and used me.”
“I know, and I’m sorry.”
“Shut up!” Dion yelled. “I don’t want to hear how sorry you are. You have no idea about anything so how can you be sorry?” He leaned forward and shouted at Patrick, his sour breath causing Patrick to want to recoil. He tried not to flinch as the tirade continued. “You left me there with him. You moved out and left me with that asshole. You didn’t even look back.” Dion’s voice cracked on the last word.
Jesus, he’s having a full breakdown.“I—”
Dion held up a hand, and Patrick swallowed what he had been going to say.
“Ian treated me like garbage. He told me I was worthless.” Dion suddenly stood, the chair scraping across the floorboards. “I’mnota nobody. I’mnotnothing.”
“I know you’re not. You’ve got heaps going for you.”
“I said to shut up!” The pacing resumed. “They said I’d never finish high school. They said I’d never amount to anything. Trash. And I couldn’t have them be right.”
“Who?”
“My pop and my brother.”
The throb started at Patrick’s temples again. In lieu of a painkiller he slowly raised a hand to his temple. Dion’s eyes widened and he stepped closer, waving the knife in his trembling fist.
Patrick dropped his hand. “Tell me about them? Your family.”
Dion flopped back onto the chair, the knife held tightly in his hand, which rested on his lap. Patrick kept one eye on the weapon in Dion’s wobbly hand as he encouraged him to talk.
“Pop raised Carl and me. Pop was right. I’m just like my loser old man.” Dion snorted a strangled kind of laugh. “Actually, I’m probably more like my mom. She tried hard but wasn’t meant to have kids. Hell, I’m not sure she could have even looked after herself properly. Pop told me she was bipolar, but what does an eight-year-old kid know, right? I just knew that sometimes it was wonderful. She’d take us, me and Carl, for ice cream after school, or to the park.” Dion’s gaze drew dreamy and Patrick eyed the knife.Now?Suddenly Dion’s fist tightened, the veins in his wrist protruding with the effort to hold it tight and stop shaking. “But a lot of the time it was awful. We’d walk home from school and the house would be quiet. No food. She’d be locked in her room sleeping. If we ever went in, she’d force us to leave, never opening the blinds or putting on the light. Because she was sleeping, she said. But we could hear the crying.”
“I’m sorry—”
Dion jumped to his feet, wobbly again. “I said not to say that. I don’t want you to feel sorry for me.” He was breathing heavily again and didn’t look at all well. He dropped to the seat again and when he looked up his pale face was streaked with tears. Patrick risked reaching out a hand, but Dion shrugged him off. “I didn’t want to hurt him; I didn’t.” The sobs grew louder.
“Hurt who?” Patrick whispered but he thought he knew the answer.Oh my God.Hearing it from Dion’s lips would make it real, and cold horror was overwhelming again.
Dion swallowed heavily and sucked in another breath. “Simon was just meant to leave you, so you would have been alone just like me. The letters didn’t work, or the graffiti. I even tried to get him to go out with me at that Halloween party, but he turned me down. I did everything to get him away from you but none of it worked.”
“How did you know about the party?” Patrick asked.
“Your cell. I copied your calendar and contacts. I shouldn’t have done that.” He swayed in his seat as he looked at Patrick, finally showing a hint of remorse. A flash of the old Dion shone through.
“Jesus, Dion. Listen to me for a minute. I don’t think you’re feeling well. Have you been drinking?”
Dion’s eyes were clouded. “Drinking?”
“Yeah, alcohol.”
“No, but I’d like some water.”
“Drugs? You haven’t been doing drugs, have you?” Patrick’s gaze automatically sought out Dion’s inner elbows, looking for track marks. Working at the hospital would give him access to drugs—Jesus! Why didn’t I think about it before?“You have remembered to take your insulin, haven’t you?”
There had been only one incident when Patrick had been there to witness the effect of Dion not managing his diabetes properly. He’d been upset due to an argument with his brother and been so distracted he hadn’t checked his blood sugar. His sugar levels had risen too high and he’d started to behave strangely. Dion hadn’t been quite with it, instead being dazed and upset, which Patrick had initially put down to the fight. Eventually he’d been short of breath and felt sick. When they’d tested his levels, the reason for the strange behavior had become clear, and a dose of insulin had rectified the situation.
Patrick shook Dion by the shoulders. “Did you take your insulin?”
This time Dion didn’t wave the knife. He looked at Patrick and blinked. “Umm….”
“Jesus, Dion. I hope you’ve got your kit with you,” Patrick said. He went to stand.
“Don’t move!” Dion stood and pushed Patrick back into his seat. “You stay there and I’ll get it.”
