FORGIVING COSTA IS WHAT WE DO. As we see it, it’s our only option. His heartbreak is too much, and perhaps it grants him license to lash out in illogical ways. I can’t begin to understand his loss.
Sam, however, does.
Sam’s willingness to allow Costa back into his life and mine didn’t come with total ease, but his devotion to his friend was, as he said, unbreakable, even under the worst of circumstances.
“I could have been Costa. I would have done everything that he’s done if I’d lost my son.”
Sam and I have to be all in or all out. There’s no middle ground.
So, we’re in.
And now, we work.
We all agreed that a vision power was the right choice. While Sam and Costa are experienced enough with death tripping to be able to move well and have a sense of orientation, neither of them can see very far. Sam has been tripping for two weeks now, and despite both of us focusing on the idea of vision before he dies, he hasn’t been able to surface with the power.
He was a wind-maker for one day, which quite delighted me, and I even bought a kite at one of the souvenir shops in town. I wasn’t sure that Sam was entirely amused by my flying it in the living room even though he kept it aloft and let me play for a few hours. He also accidentally blew off a section of roof tiles from our house, but he was utterly exhausted, so it was understandable that he got sloppy.
Costa is up on the roof right now, repairing the damage, and I do find it slightly funny that death tripping seems to come with a lot of home repairs—Sam’s front door, a hole in the wall from that intense night with the three of us, the mirror and glass door that I broke.
Right now, I’m watching Sam pummel the shit out of the sandbag hanging from a sturdy tree limb. He surfaced a few hours ago, and he’s still surging and trying to work it off.
He insisted that we come up with a plan to handle his surges because he was not going to let me offer myself up each time he came back. As much as I love Sam—and sex with Sam—I had to agree. Something felt very creepy about the idea of throwing myself in his path just so that he could discharge his trip energy. Because he made me promise, I try to make myself scarce for at least the first hour or so after he’s back. So, we have the punching bag.
And both of our kitchens are positively stocked to the brim with food. Costa has two good black eyes, courtesy of Sam, from when he tried to help himself to some of the food I’d cooked for Sam. I’m not convinced Sam couldn’t have stopped himself there, but he punched Costa a few times and then finished an entire chicken and serving bowl of mashed potatoes.
Sweat pours down Sam’s back and chest as he continues fighting imaginary targets, repeatedly slamming his fists into the punching bag. Watching him is not easy for me. He’s lost weight, and there are dark circles under his eyes. He’s been going to work in the mornings, coming home in the afternoons, and then tripping. Keeping his trip time down to just a few hours or less has gotten easier, so he’s been able to work off the surge and get to bed at a reasonable hour, but this amount of death tripping has taken a hard toll on him. I’ve cleaned up more vomit and washed more laundry than I care to admit. When the surge ends, there’s also the shaking, the clammy sweat, and the near delirium—and the nightmares. I’m not sure how much longer he can do this, and I can’t figure out why we can’t get him the vision power. I’ve been trying to get him to slow down, to let his body recuperate, but he’s refused.
“If we can get to Toby,” he said earlier, “then this tripping binge is more than worth it.”
Costa comes down from the roof and gives me a nod, so I head into my bedroom and watch through the French doors as Costa gently guides Sam away from the sandbag. Sam leans against him and lets Costa untie the boxing gloves. Costa wipes him down with a towel before they walk slowly inside his first-floor unit. He’ll eat the four Italian subs I made, drink at least a gallon of milk, and probably polish off the rest of my chocolate chip cookies that he’s become fond of post-trip.
I’ve forced myself to stay near him because that has seemed important for getting a certain power, but watching him die over and over feels like it’s killing me, too. He was killing himself at first—with pills mostly—but he asked Costa to take over and do it. In his worn-out state, Sam said he just wants it to happen faster, and he doesn’t have the energy to get creative or dramatic.
Among the many things that worry me is that I’m not sure Sam’s explanation is true. I think he dies better and with more pleasure when Costa does it. The bond between them has intensified with each kill. I see the way they look at each other when Sam is losing blood. The truth, however, is that I don’t hate that look. In fact, I enjoy their connection. But Sam compromising on his belief that a death tripper should trip himself tells me how worn-out he is.
Costa texts me when Sam has finished eating and has had a long shower. I wipe my eyes and take the wraparound porch to the stairs, using these few moments to brace myself before I get to Sam’s bedroom. Costa is just pulling up the covers, and he looks almost as ashen as Sam does.
Sam groans and rolls on his side, reaching out to wrap his hand over Costa’s arm. Costa leans in so that he can hear and then shakes his head. He has to peel Sam’s grip from him, but at least I know that Sam still has some strength left.
“No, Sam. No! It’s way too soon.”
Sam groans again and turns onto his stomach, pulling his legs under him so that he is hunched in a ball. Costa winces in reaction.
I step fully into the room and sit on the edge of the bed. I’m not sure Sam even knows that I’m here. “Why don’t you go get some vitamin water, CJ? I’ll stay with him.”
Begrudgingly, Costa rounds the bed toward the door but pauses by me. He starts to say something but stops.
“I know,” I say. “We’re trying. I swear. I don’t know why we can’t make this work.”
Costa’s eyes are the darkest I’ve seen them. “He has to stop. This is breaking him.”
I’m reluctant to agree, but it’s the truth. This is too much. Sam is too sick.
“Did he just ask you to kill him again?”
Costa nods. “I won’t, not until he’s better. He’s too doped up now. And…” Costa hesitates. “He doesn’t just want to trip. He needs it. His body is asking for it, and he can’t tolerate not tripping.”
Sam shudders, and I scoot over to his side to put a hand on him. He’s burning up now.
