I think about Ivan.
I don't know why—I always think about Ivan when things get bad, when I hit bottom, when I need something to hold onto. I wonder what he would think if he could see me now, locked up like an animal, beat to hell over a fight I didn't have to start, sitting in my own blood.
I wonder if he'd be disappointed. I wonder if he'd even recognize me anymore. I wonder if the person I've become is so far removed from the boy who promised to find him that there's no connection left.
The Ivan I knew was twelve years old, small and scared and looking at me like I was the only thing keeping the world from swallowing him whole. He's nineteen now, if he's still alive. A grown man. He's probably nothing like the kid I remember. He's probably got a life somewhere, a job, maybe people who care about him. Maybe even a family. He's probably forgotten all about the boy who promised to find him and never did, who failed at the only thing that ever mattered.
I should have tried harder. The thought circles in my head like a vulture. I should have done more. I should have been better, should have been smarter, should have found a way to keep that promise no matter what it cost me. Instead, I'm sitting in a jail cell at two in the morning, bleeding from a bar fight, with nothing to show for twenty-one years of life except a motorcycle and a motel room and a drinking problem I pretend I don't have.
I'm exactly what the system predicted I'd be—another foster kid who aged out and fell through the cracks, another statistic, another failure.
I lean my head back against the wall and close my eyes, even though closing my swollen eye hurts. The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, harsh and unforgiving, drilling into my skull. Somewhere down the hall, someone is crying, big heaving sobs that echo off the concrete. I just sit there and breathe and wait for morning, wait for whatever comes next.
At some point I fall asleep, or something close to it, a kind of half-conscious dozing where pain and exhaustion blur together. When Iopen my eyes again, there's a guard unlocking the cell door, telling me I've made bail.
I don't know who would have posted bail for me. I don't have anyone. I don't have family or friends or anyone who would care enough to get me out of here. But I walk out to the front desk and there's Mick, standing there with his arms crossed and his face unreadable, and he doesn't say a word, just jerks his head toward the door.
We walk out to his truck in silence. The morning sun is too bright, makes my head pound and my swollen eye water. I climb into the passenger seat slowly, every movement sending fresh waves of pain through my ribs, and sit there staring at the dashboard, waiting for him to start yelling.
He doesn't yell. He starts the truck and pulls out of the parking lot and drives for a few minutes without speaking, the only sound the rumble of the engine. Finally, he says, "You want to tell me what happened?"
"Not really."
He nods, like that's exactly what he expected. "You hurt bad?"
"I'll live."
"How are your ribs?"
"Bruised. Maybe cracked. Nothing that won't heal." If I'm lucky. If infection doesn't set in. God knows I can't afford to go to the doctor without health insurance.
He's quiet for another minute. "I'm not gonna tell you how to live your life, Jay. You're a grown man. You make your own choices. But I need you at the shop. I need you showing up, doing your job, being reliable. I can't have you sitting in a jail cell because you couldn't walk away from bullies looking for a fight."
"I know," I say, staring down at my bloody hands.
"Do you?" He glances at me, and there's something in his eyes that might be disappointment or might be concern. I can't look at it. "Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're trying to self-destruct. The drinking, the pills, now this. I've seen it before, Jay. I've buried friends who went down that road. Good men who couldn't find a way out of whatever hell they were living in. I don't want to bury you too."
I don't say anything. What is there to say? He's right. I know he's right. I've known it for years, watching myself spiral and being unable to stop it.
"Whatever's eating at you," Mick continues, "whatever you're running from or looking for or trying to forget—you've got to find another way to deal with it. Because this path you're on, it only ends one way. And it ain't pretty."
He pulls into the Vista Inn parking lot and stops the truck. I reach for the door handle, then pause.
"Thanks," I say quietly. "For bailing me out. For coming to get me."
"Don't thank me. Just show up for work on Monday." He looks at me with those steady, unreadable eyes. "And maybe think about what I said. Get some help, Jay. Talk to someone. Do something before it's too late."
I get out of the truck and watch him drive away, standing there in the parking lot in yesterday's bloody clothes with the sun too bright and my body screaming with pain. Then I walk up the stairs to my room, each step an agony, unlock the door, and stand there for a long moment looking at the space I've been living in for years.
The bed with its sagging mattress and unwashed sheets. The dresser with the bottle of whiskey on top, nearly empty now. The mini-fridge with nothing in it but beer.
Mick is right. I'm self-destructing. I've been self-destructing for years, slowly, methodically, one drink at a time, one pill at a time, one empty night at a time. And I don't know how to stop. I don't know if I want to stop.
What am I stopping for? What's waiting for me on the other side of getting better?
I walk to the bathroom and look at myself in the mirror. The face looking back at me is a wreck—black eye swollen shut, split lip, bruises blooming purple and yellow across my cheekbone. Dried blood in my hair. I look like someone who's been through a war. I look like someone who's losing badly. I look like someone who's already dead but hasn't stopped moving yet.
I turn away from the mirror because I can't look at myself anymore, can't stand to see what I've become. I walk back into the room and liedown on the bed, still wearing my bloody clothes because I don't have the energy to change, don't have the energy to care. I stare at the ceiling and the dog-head stain stares back, judging me, watching me fail.
