A young guy barely out of his teens was the first to smile. He patted the rotten wood next to him. “Come pull up a bit of porch.”
I put on my best smile, hoping I wouldn’t have to join in the circle. I wanted to get what I needed and get out. I wasn’t interested in socializing any more than I had to. “I’m actuallyhoping I can bum a joint off you. Or anything really. I’ll take whatever you have.”
He stopped patting the step, and looked at me with curiosity. “You’re Winder’s girl, aren’t you? The one he’s keeping hidden from the rest of us.”
Winder’s girl. I didn’t know what we were, but Winder’s girl had a nice little ring to it. “Yeah. I am.”
The man narrowed his eyes. “I can’t imagine Winder would be too happy if I gave you grass.”
I rolled my eyes. “Come on. Don’t be such a buzzkill. Winder won’t mind, and he’ll probably be more mad if youdon’tgive me something.”
Resorting to threats wasn’t on the top of my favorite things today, but priorities changed, and apparently mine changed a lot. The ache of reality was too much to bear right now, and I wanted—no, needed—to put it all out of my mind before I screamed.
He cocked his head. “Fine. But you’re not smoking it here. And if Winder finds out about it, it’s your head, not mine.”
“Absolutely.”
He gave me the already lit joint he was holding. “You know what you’re doing?”
“Definitely.” I nodded, snatching the joint out of his hand before he could change his mind. Giving up an entire joint wasn’t something I expected from any of them, but I guessed there had to be some perks to beingWinder’s girl.I wasn’t about to complain.
I hurried back into the house, cradling my joint carefully as I locked the bedroom door behind me.
Putting the joint to my lips, more confident this time than I had been at the party, I slumped to the floor with my back to the door. My only problem was not knowing how much was toomuch, but it was a pretty small roll, so it couldn’t dothatmuch damage.
As I smoked, the room grew fuzzy, the sounds from the guys outside sounding further and further away. I stumbled to my feet, and rested the joint on the bedside table, before flopping back into Winder’s bed, finally at peace.
It felt safe here, safe from my thoughts. They passed by harmlessly, drifting in and out on a breeze of consciousness. I reached my hand out to grab one, but it brushed by before I could catch it. Nothing else mattered, except for the right here, right now.
It would be easier if I weren’t here.It was a lightning bolt through my chest, and I grabbed for the mean words, wanting to destroy them. I rolled over, taking another quick hit off the still lit joint. This time, I put it out on the bedside table, watching it make a tiny burn mark. I smiled, kind of liking the fact I had put a permanent mark on something of Winder’s. It would be here even when I wasn’t.
It would be easier if I weren’t here.The thought didn’t hurt as much the second time. I could distance myself from the emotions, to reason with the logic.
Here was the logic: It hurt being human. It hurt more than I ever thought possible. It hurt not remembering major parts of my life, and it hurt when they came back. It hurt existing in the in-between, a void of reality and fiction. Most of all, it killed me not knowing if I was a good person or not.
Winder seemed to think I was, but he was also the first to admit people lied.
I ached so badly, and I didn’t know how to make it stop. The weed dulled the overwhelming heaviness of it, but it still lingered there in the corners of my vision, waiting to rear its ugly head the moment I sobered up.
Love. Hate. Pain. Numbness. It was everywhere, and it was eternal. It would be easier just to cut it out.
I rummaged through the chipped nightstand again. Winder had to have something useful in there.
Ha. I knew it. A pocketknife lay at the back of the drawer. Silly Winder and his grumpy face and all those black clothes was bound to have some kind of weapon close to hand, even if he did have that cute little teddy bear hidden in his closet. I’d have to ask him about it sometime. I flipped open the pocketknife, twirling it in the air, conducting all the thoughts racing past like my very own musical.
It would be easier.
So much easier.
Might even be easier on Winder, because he wouldn’t have to worry about digging me out of this mess. He could just coast without me.
It didn’t even seem like a painful process. The pocketknife was too bright. Too cheerful. It wouldn’t hurt me like that. It would just make me feel better. All of the aches and pains of being human would disappear.
Maybe I needed more weed, first.
I spun the knife around in my fingers. Funny how such small things could be so impactful. They somehow always were.
“Why does it smell in here?”
