Ruin My Life (Mangled Masterpieces #1)

45. Win

45

Win

Seven Months Ago

I don’t need to be cognizant to know what day it is. Every year, without fail, my body remembers. Pain flares in places long since physically healed. Phantom voices hiss and spit in my ears like surround sound. Everything tastes like dirt and despair. Fragmented images send me into a dissociative state. Breathing takes a conscious effort. Moving is impossible. Existing is unbearable.

It’s been six years since the worst day of my life.

And no one knows.

No one cares.

The remnants of whatever I snorted last night are almost out of my system. My stash is empty, but I can’t bear to do any of Mason’s favors for more. Not today.

The old mattress creaks as I blindly grab the handle of vodka off the floor. But when I raise it to my cracked lips, I find it empty.

Like me .

It slips from my limp fingers. Glass shatters.

Maybe I’ll use it to cut. Bleed the agony from my veins. I haven’t since discovering the wonders of drugs. I don’t even ask what Mason gives me, I just take it; anything that will black out my mind is fair game. Especially before he takes payment .

But lately, he’s been stingy because what he wants is something I refuse to give. Apparently, it’s not enough to have me on my knees— he wants to defile the rest of me too. But to his frustration, no amount of promised oblivion can convince me. So he’s throwing a tantrum, threatening to cut me off if I don’t let him fuck me.

My phone buzzes again with what I’m sure is another demanding text. I turn it off and roll on my side, facing my bedroom door. It’s been uncharacteristically dark out today— some slap-dick on the news is rattling on about forest fires and bad air quality from Dad’s room. I hate the drone of TV nonsense, but he insists it helps him sleep so I don’t touch it.

That’s all he does now. Sleep. I tried to take him to the hospital last night when he was puking and shitting blood, but he snapped at me, “ I don’t need some money-hungry doctor running a bunch of tests to tell me the same thing. I’m fucking dying, Win. They can’t do shit for me. ”

It took everything in me not to say, “ Yeah, well, at least I’m trying to help you. I’ve been dying for six years and you never fucking noticed .”

Instead, I locked myself in my room and haven’t left since.

How can a dying man expect care from an animated corpse?

I should check on him, but my body is too heavy. A migraine tunnels through my eye socket. Cold sweats soak my three day old clothes. Everything aches. I grind my knuckle into my sore eye and hoist myself upright.

The world tilts.

Or maybe I do.

Who the fuck knows.

Shuffling through broken glass, I creep out of my room. Light flickers from the door left ajar at the end of the hall.

“ ... advised to wear a mask in the affected areas…” drones the news-guy.

My legs are lead blocks. A few steps and I’m out of breath. When was the last time I ate? My stomach rolls. The old woman next door made us a lasagna two days ago but I finished the last piece yesterday. We don’t have any cash left since I used Dad’s disability check to cover the electricity and water bills. My student loan money is gone too. (We’d be facing eviction if the landlord wasn’t one of Dad’s old work buddies.)

Wading through dust and the pungent odor of sickness that permeates the walls of our apartment, I approach Dad’s room and cautiously push the door in—

“Dad?”

Eerie silence greets me.

Not today. Please, not today.

In the dim light of the television, he’s a ghost.

You can’t. You’re all I have left.

Vacant eyes stare through me from the bed.

How could you?

The blood in the corner of his mouth is dry.

Now I’m alone.

I’m shaking. I think I’m crying. I can’t feel a fucking thing.

Suddenly, rage railroads into my chest. A roar tears from my throat. I’m a hurricane, blasting through the room, launching medical supplies, empty nutritional bags and prescription bottles in every direction.

“ ... low visibility and poor air conditions for most of the week…”

My fist flies into the TV. Blood sprays from my knuckles. Ragged, broken sobs that don’t sound human pour from me as I gather the remaining pain pills and stumble back to my room. I rip into the dingy closet and dig through the clutter for the last sliver of comfort hidden in the back.

Tears splatter on the pebbled leather as I brush a thick layer of dust off V’s case. I sink to the floor and pick up one of the prescription bottles.

My hands tremble so hard it takes four tries to open the cap.

Then I dump them all in my mouth.

Choke them down.

My body riots, gagging and burning with bile.

I fight it, a chant chorusing through my shattered mind.

Alone. Alone. Alone. Alone.

Everything moves in slow motion.

I don’t want to be alone.

“Remy,” I whimper. “I want… Remy.”

Suddenly, instinct kicks in. I don’t want to die. I don’t want to leave this world without seeing him one last time. Without telling him the truth. Without saying those three words to him.

I stick my finger down my throat and instantly heave. Acid and half-digested capsules spew out. Fire scorches up my nose, snot and tears and saliva mix on my lips. Once I start vomiting, it’s impossible to stop.

My eyelids droop.

Nonono .

I need to get to the hospital.

Crawling through the mess, I snatch my keys off the nightstand and grab the handle of V’s case before hoisting myself to my feet—

Whoa.

Woozy.

Shit .

Another wave of nausea has me puking again. Wiping my mouth on the back of my hand, I stumble out of the apartment to the parking lot.

It smells like a campfire out here.

Come on, focus. Unlock the car. Slide behind the wheel. It’s not that far of a drive. You’ve done it a hundred times for Dad. You can do it now…

Smog swallows signs, buildings and roads. Streetlights glow like dying stars. Remy called me Starlight and look, I’m dying too. I grin at the irony.

No, I’m not grinning. I’m sobbing. Uncontrollably. And it hurts— everything hurts. My stomach, my throat, my mouth, my teeth, my heart, my lungs, my fucking soul .

Gripping the steering wheel, I aim for the main road. I’m cruising. It’s fine. Second nature. Follow the lines. I’ve got this—

Impact snaps my head back.

Darkness descends.

I’m drifting…

“Help! Somebody help!”

Sirens.

“Can you hear me, hon?”

“Please step aside so we can get him out of the vehicle.”

“Pulse is weak.”

“Oxygen.”

“Does he have ID on him?”

“Got it… Winston Rhodes.”

But soon, their voices fade out. And when I wake, I’m met with Mom’s crying eyes.