It’s all your fault.
The smell of musty, aging wood, painted over in a dozen layers. Too-short doorways he had to duck under. Whispers outside his room, talking about him in hushed tones, thinking he couldn’t hear.
His ears hadn’t been damaged in the slightest.
He wished they had.
You killed him.
The sensation of wanting to tear his skin off if only to relieve theincessant guilt crawling beneath it like spiders skittering along his bones, and the horrible, crushing knowledge that even if that were an option, he couldn’t. He wasn’t capable anymore.
YOUR FAULT.
He held up his right hand.
You’re the shame of the Redmond legacy.
The biggest disappointment this family has seen in generations.
It shook so violently, he couldn’t even grip a drinking glass for fear of dropping or shattering it. It was only his cup from the hospital with its plastic handle and wide, clear straw and leak-proof top that he could manage now.
You killed your own father.
A fucking sippy cup for a grown man.
He didn’t want to touch it.
It sat empty on his bedside table.
You deserve to die too.
It was useless.
Hewas useless.
What could he do with his life now, like this?
You’re a piece of shit.
Fucking garbage.
Lloyd was right all along.
Theo turned onto his left side. His blackout shades were down, but he was sure it was afternoon already. It didn’t matter.
Nothing mattered anymore.
He thought about the little amber bottle sitting next to his bed. There were more pills in there. Everything hurt. Maybe he should take another dose—or two. Maybe three, or four.
Or twelve.
But that would mean he’d have to try to open it again.
He closed his eyes.
Maybe if he did, he wouldn’t wake up this time.
It’d be a relief, in the end.
