“They said he’ll be okay, and that he should wake up soon, but they’re talking about keeping him forat leastseventy-two hours.” I can feel my face and chest heat up as the anger regarding the psychologist’s demands resurfaces. “It’s bullshit. This place is packed, and they won’t even have a bedpossiblyopening in the mental-health ward for two days. So, they’reapparentlyjust going to keep him in a room like this until then? Like, what the fuck?! They're just going to keep him restrained for two days?!” I get loud unwillingly, and hot tears start running down my face again despite almost stopping. Angry-crying is seemingly another wonderful symptom from this pregnancy, but at least this seems like an appropriate moment for it.
Damien runs his thumb across my lip, and I’m certain it’s covered in drool, snot, and only God knows what else. He does it in a slow, calming motion as he takes another deep breath, forcing me to do the same, but I can see the hardness return to his eyes—the one that silently tells me he’s about to do whatever it takes to get what we need.
“The fuck they are. He’s coming home with us. I'll handle it.” He lifts me easily and sets me down on the chair, wasting no time to kiss my cheek before standing and walking out—heading in the direction as the front desk. “Excuse me? I need to speak to your head of Psychiatry…” His voice trails off as he walks down the hall, and those forceful steps retreat with him. My gaze stays locked on the doorway, waiting for the moment he storms back and tells me that we’re going to take Zeke home.
I also want him to promise that we can help him the way he needs without making him feel like a caged bear, but I’m not so sure he can guarantee that. Can we give him what he needs? Do we have the resources to take care of him? A hundred otherquestions fly through my head, but as I take another harsh, deep breath, determination floods my system.
Whatever he needs, we’ll handle it.
“Ash?”
I snap my head and look over to see Zeke’s now cloudy, green eyes staring back at me. He’s clearly still waking up, and his gaze looks unfocused, but at least his sights are locked on me. I quickly wipe my eyes, trying to hide the obvious tear stains. I’m sure my entire face, neck, and chest are still blotchy and red, but I’m hoping he won’t immediately notice. After I try to compose myself, I stand up as steadily as I can and grab his hand, squeezing it tightly to warm his cold fingers.
“Hey…” I speak softly, not wanting to overwhelm him. His eyes flutter closed for a moment, but then they reopen, and he looks at me with so much remorse and self-deprecation that he might as well have stabbed me in the chest.
“I’m sorry… I didn’t think that you would find me…”
I have to turn my head away and blink rapidly to shove the tears deep down. There are probably a thousand things I should say right now, but my mind is only conjuring up the ones I probably shouldn’t. I need to choose my words very carefully, knowing what a fragile mental state he’s in right now.
“What were you thinking, Zeke? Wh…” I swallow harshly and look at the lights, taking another small breath to keep myself composed. “You could’ve come to me. To any of us. We would’ve helped you through this…”
He squeezes my hand and nods slowly, looking more exhausted by the second.
“It just hurts so much… I wasn’t thinking. I just wanted it to end… I needed it to stop.” His voice is weak, like in his mind, he’s already gone. There’s not much of a sign that he has any desire to live anymore, but I’m taking his grip on my hand as one. It’s harsh and unwavering, even as his eyes show his exhaustion. Ihave to see it that way, because the alternative is that my brother withers way from the inside. Even if he can’t see his weapons right now, I’ll be one for him.
“I know…” A tear finally escapes, and I use my hand to wipe it away before laying it on top of our conjoined grips.
“Did…” he starts, but then pauses to steady his trembling lips. “Did you call my parents?” he asks softly, like he’s truly terrified of the answer. And honestly? I’m afraid of how he’ll feel about my response.
“No, we… We didn’t yet. I wasn’t sure how, or…”
He interrupts me by shaking his head, releasing a quivering, relieved breath.
“Please, don’t tell them…”
“Zeke, you need them right now.”
He cuts me off again by nodding, and opening and closing his mouth a couple of times before speaking again.
“I know I do, but please, I can’t see the look on my mom’s face if she finds out. Please, Ash…” His grip on my hand tightens, and his strength is one of desperation—a plea that slithers its way into my soul. His tone is tortured, and each hit of shakiness only emphasizes his agony.
“Okay, okay. We won’t… We won’t call them. Just…please don’t give us another reason to…” He nods again and tries to sit up, finally noticing the cuffs around his wrists. He yanks on them a few times, like he’s testing their hold, and then he lays back on the bed, looking more defeated than I’ve ever seen him. “We’re going to help you, okay? I promise. Everything is going to be alright.”
“They’re never going to let me out of here,” he whispers with dread laced in his voice. While that causes more tears to prickle behind my eyes, it’s also a good sign. If he didn’t care if he lived or died, it wouldn’t matter where he was, right? So, I’m going to take his reluctance to stay here as another sliver of hope
“Yes, they are—” I'm interrupted by Damien’s boisterous voice booming from down the hall.
“I don’t give a fuck about protocol! I'mtellingyou…” The rest is drowned out by more noise from the halls, but something about his words and authoritative voice is comforting—relieving. Knowing that he’s just as serious about Zeke’s mental state as I am is uplifting, and I stand a little straighter, knowing that I can give Zeke some real answers.
“See? Damien’s taking care of it. You're coming home with us.” I squeeze his hand again and he relaxes some, seemingly reassured. My hands tighten on his, and I make sure to grip him so harshly that he knows he’ll never be alone again. Not while we’re alive, anyway.
Chapter 8
Ashia
The knives clatter as I drop them into the box, and I have to blink every time they glint off the overhead lights. We’ve already cleared the garage and that side room of all of the weapons, and those numbers were certainly eye-opening. It didn’t look likethatmuch while it was up on the wall, but having to make sureallof them were packed up was hell.
Now we’ve moved to the main floor, and we’re following the list the doctor gave us. Knives, scissors, medications—even the over-the-counter ones—and cleaning supplies all need to be put away. I knew drinking bleach was dangerous, but it’s crazy to think that someone would actually drink it purposely to end their life. There are a million ways one can kill themselves, some by accident and some intentional, but I never realized all of the dangers just laying around before today.
