Chapter 43 - Ciarán
Forty three-Ciarian
I was fucked.
That first night was the worst. They stuck me in a small room with a bed bolted to the floor and a window that didn’t open. I sat on the edge of the thin mattress, head in my hands, trying to piece together the wreckage. My mind was a tornado I couldn’t control.
At some point, I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw a figure staring through the small window in the door. Their face was blank, eyes empty, and for a terrifying second, I thought it was my pops.
Then they screamed.
A raw, guttural sound. My skin tried to crawl right off my bones. My heart hammered, but I didn’t move. I just stared back until someone yanked them away.
I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father’s face—angry, broken, lifeless. I felt the weight of everything I’d carried for years, and it was finally crushing me.
When the doctor came in the morning, I was in the same spot, hands clenched into fists.
“Mr. James,” he said, calm but firm. “How are you feeling?”
“Like shit,” I muttered to the floor.
He nodded, as if that was the expected answer. “I’ve reviewed your case. You stopped your medication for several weeks, then started again, doubling the doses. Combined with the stress of your father’s death, it triggered the seizure.”
I said nothing.
“You understand how dangerous that is?” he asked, his tone sharpening. “Stopping and starting like that can have serious consequences. You’re lucky it was just a seizure.”
“When can I get out?” I cut him off.
He paused, studying me. “You can leave now. The hold was a precaution. You were… agitated. Saying you wanted to see your father, that you wanted to visit him in hell.”
I recoiled. I couldn’t even deny it. I didn't know what I'd said. I’d just woken up confused, tired, and nauseous.
The doctor sighed, setting the chart down. “Mr. James, you need to take care of yourself. Your mental health is as important as your physical health. If you don’t take your medication consistently, this will keep happening. Next time could be worse.”
I didn’t respond. I just nodded, my mind racing with one thought…Jordin had seen me at my worst.
Not just angry or reckless. But helpless. Weak. A convulsing mess on the floor. I’d heard her scream my name. Heard her beg Oak for help. Then, nothing.
I imagined the fear in her eyes.
Would she look at me differently now?
Would she pull away?
Would she stay?
And if she did, how long before this shit became too much? How long before she realized she didn’t sign up for this? For me? Especially when she had a whole husband.
And what about Oak? Before, I was a rival. Now? After seeing me convulse on the floor, lost in my own head... he must see me as a pitiful half-man. Broken. Unreliable.
The real question isn't whether I see him as a threat anymore. It's whether he'd ever trust me to protect her. To not be the one who ends up hurting her. After what he witnessed, I doubt it. How could he? I can't even trust myself.
I rubbed my hands over my face, swallowing the thick lump in my throat.
I was supposed to be stronger than this. She didn't need my shit added to the weight she already carried.
But now she knew.
The doctor handed me a new prescription and a list of therapists, then left. I stared at the papers. I’d been tripping, thinking I could have someone in my life with this mental shit going on. I knew what I had to do.
I called Tyrell as soon as I got my phone back.
“C, where the hell are you? Jordin’s been blowing up my phone, she’s worried sick.”
“I’m at the hospital. You know the one,” I said, my voice rough. “Come get me.”
A pause. “Why didn’t you call Jordin?”
“I don’t want her to see me like this,” I said, my voice breaking. “I fucked up, Tyrell. I don’t want her to see me.”
He sighed but didn’t argue. “I’m on my way.”
When he got there, he started in immediately. “You should call her.”
I ignored him.
“Ciarán.”
Nothing.
Tyrell let out a hard laugh. “Man, you’re really about to do this, huh?”
I clenched my jaw.
“She’s been blowing up my phone since the ambulance left. The staff wouldn’t tell her anything. She’s worried as hell about you.”
I swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “She doesn’t need this shit.”
“She doesn’t need you shutting her out either.”
My head snapped up, a glare fixing on him. “Back the fuck off, Ty.”
He shook his head, lips pressed thin. “Fine. I’ll take you wherever you wanna go. Just say the word. I ain’t gonna fight you. You know what you’re doing. You know what you’re throwing away. You prayed for this chance with Jordin. You gonna fuck it up pulling away now?”
My fists tightened in my lap.
“Fuck you still sitting here for? You want to leave, get up. It smells like piss and bleach in here.”
I couldn’t look at him. I could barely breathe past the weight on my chest. But I got up and followed him out.
The moment we stepped outside, my day went from bad to catastrophic. Microphones were shoved in my face.
My head pounded. The cameras. The voices. It made it hard to breathe.
“Ciarán! Can you comment on your father’s death?”
“Ciarán, are you suicidal?”
“Did you try to kill yourself?”
My hands clenched. My breath turned shallow. The static in my head roared so loud I thought my skull would split.
And then—
I swung.
I didn’t think. My fist connected with a camera, the crunch of metal and glass vibrating up my arm. It hit the pavement with a sickening crack. The guy holding it stumbled back, eyes wide.
Gasps. The press recoiled like I was a rabid animal.
Tyrell’s hand was on me before I could swing again, his grip vise-tight on my arm, his voice a harsh whisper in my ear. "Nigga, what the fuck? Get your ass in the car."
I barely heard him. My chest was a battlefield. My jaw ached. My fingers curled, ready for more.
Tyrell snatched me by the shirt, forcing our way through the crowd, past the flashing lights and judgmental stares. I was a headline waiting to happen.
He shoved me into the car and slammed the door. My body jerked as he peeled out of the parking lot.