It’s nice. He’s in control. He just keeps talking in that calm, I’m-the-boss voice and I kind of want to let Micah be in charge of me for the rest of my existence.
That wouldn’t be so bad, I think. He’d make me shower and eat real food, and he probably wouldn’t let me murder anyone hardly at all.
The next time he disappears, he comes back with some of those buttery soft sweatpants that he bought me and a clean white undershirt. He wrestles them on me one by one, and when he’s done, I look like someone that you might let sleep in a real home. Everything that’s touching me is so soft, it lulls me into a sense of security that has all the rancid, disjointed thoughts from earlier walled up in a distant part of my brain.
I’m sure they’ll break out and hunt me down later, but right now I’m tired. I know I won’t sleep, but at least I’m exhausted enough not to care.
A knock at the door startles me, but it’s like my body is half-powered down and doesn’t have the wherewithal to respond. So, I feel the startle internally, but I don’t actually move in response. Instead, my face turns slowly in the direction of the front door, despite the fact that I can’t actually see it from Micah’s bedroom.
“It’s fine,” Micah says, taking hold of my face and forcing me to look at him in that way that always calms me down. “It’s Tristan. He’s dropping off meds I asked him for that I think will help. He’s not coming in. I’m going to go to the door to get it, and then I’m coming right back. Got it?”
I nod, feeling stupid and tongue-tied. This shouldn’t be a stressful experience.
There’s only someone at the door. I’ve literally tortured people to death without batting an eye. The discordance between these two things is tripping me up, but all those other parts of my life feel far away right now, and the life that Micah’s wrapped around me is down-soft and I don’t want anyone else to step inside this fragile cage.
“I’ll be right back.”
He looks at me sharply one more time before stepping away. I hear murmured voices drifting down the hallway, but they’re not loud enough for me to make out the words. Which is fine. I don’t want to hear what they’re saying about me, anyway.
I’m already aware of how pathetic I am. I don’t need to hear them confirm it.
I just need to sleep.
The thought kicks around my consciousness as I lie back on Micah’s soft, detergent-scented bed. But I know I won’t. I’ll lie on his couch all night, staring at that fucking ceiling fan while my brain twists itself into knots until I feel like the world is upside down, just like every other night since I ran out of my stupid meds.
There’s no point in even trying, but I’m out of other options. Father won’t let me work. Neither him nor Micah will let me off myself. And I really don’t have the energy to run.
I’ll just lie here until Micah comes back and he’ll tell me what to do. That’s something I can handle.
Micah
“Thank you-thank you-thank you,” I whisper as I open the door.
Tristan stares at me, waiting to see if I’m going to let him come in. I weigh the benefits and ultimately decide it’s better to risk him seeing Tadhg than my neighbors seeing what I’m about to give him. This is Mission Flats, but still.
Why invite trouble?
Tristan walks inside, looking as ragged as I feel after an exhausting shift and then being pulled out of bed by my 911 favor.
“Don’t move.”
I leave him in the doorway, with the door closed so at least my neighbors can’t see if any of them are awake and spying, then dart into the kitchen. I don’t even want to touch the fucking thing, my stomach flipping when I pick it up.
I have no idea if Tadhg even replaced the bullets that I stole when Colm first dropped this off with the rest of his stuff. I don’t want to know.
Frankly, I feel like how close I came to losing him isn’t really contingent on that. If he’d made up his mind, a lack of bullets wouldn’t have stopped him.
I held him back this time, but I can’t take any more chances. I don’t know if I can stop him again, but I can at least remove anything from the house that makes it easier for him to make a terrible split-second decision.
“Here, take this. Hide it somewhere for me, please.”
Tristan’s eyes widen in a shocked expression that I’m not used to seeing on him. He’s generally a take-everything-in-stride kind of guy. But I guess he knows the significance of what I’m handing him.
“Micah, does this belong to the Banna? This is a big deal. I can’t steal this.” He holds up his hand, refusing to even touch it.
“You didn’t steal it. I stole it, and you’re holding on to it for me. I’ll give it back to him when I can trust him, but I need it to be out of this apartment for a little while. You have no idea how bad things got tonight, Tristan. I’m really scared.”
I don’t know when my voice started to crack in my hysterical little whisper-ramble, but it was somewhere in there. And the sympathy that seeps into Tristan’s expression makes my stomach churn even more.
