Prologue #2
As far as I knew, he’d gone three years without cutting. This would be the second time he’s cut deep enough to lose consciousness.
Wilder rarely talked about his feelings, even when I tried to get him to tell me how he was doing, he’d swear he was doing great. As if he didn’t want to burden anyone with the knowledge that maybe he wasn’t. Or perhaps admit them to himself. Either way, keeping it in was causing more damage.
My throat tightens as I stare at him, keeping as much pressure on his thigh as possible.
I love him more than anything. Even when he’s a real pain in my fucking ass, I’ve worried more about his well-being than my own.
I don’t want him to feel sad and would prefer he’d talk to me when he did, but knowing he never does is why I go everywhere with him.
It’s the reason I don’t make a fuss out of him acting up or doing dumb shit because then at least for a moment he’s laughing and happy.
Whether or not it’s an act, I can’t always tell.
He’s good at putting on a facade.
“They’re here,” Dad tells me when I zone out. I haven’t stopped staring at Wilder.
As soon as the EMTs walk in, I quickly explain what happened when I found him and then move out of their way. They do a quick clean and wrap job before getting him on the stretcher and taking him out to the ambulance.
“Waylon…” My dad’s booming voice shakes me out of my trance.
His hand’s on my shoulder, squeezing me. “Your hands and legs are covered in blood. Wash up, and then I’ll drive us to the hospital. Your mother’s ridin’ in the back with him.”
All I can do is nod.
After rinsing my hands in the sink, I step into the shower, grab the shower head, and then spray my bare legs until they’re clean.
My mind’s blank and my heart races nonstop as I go through the motions of getting dressed and meeting the rest of my siblings downstairs.
It stays empty as Dad drives us into town.
It’s not until hours later that a nurse approaches us in the waiting room and says he’s awake and asking for me. The doctor gives us a quick rundown of what they did and what to expect.
Wilder’s hooked up to an IV and blood pressure cuff. His thigh is bandaged and covered with a blanket, so I can’t see it, but the doctor said it took them a while to properly suture. He’s going to have one hell of a scar.
The psychiatrist on call has already met with Wilder and our parents.
Now that Wilder’s an adult, he can speak on his own behalf.
Since he claimed it wasn’t a suicide attempt and was under a lot of stress when he did it, the doctor chose not to admit him as an inpatient.
But they’re setting him up with appointments to speak to a psychologist to determine the root of his depression.
If I knew he wouldn’t laugh in my face, I’d tell him he needed to go to regular therapy appointments. Hell, I’d go with him.
But I know my brother and he’ll never commit to anything like that. Doesn’t mean I can’t try, though, when he’s not drugged up and can listen to my concerns.
“Hey, ’sup, Way-Way?” Wilder says as I approach the side of his hospital bed, and I want to smack the lopsided grin off his face.
When we were toddlers, he couldn’t say my full name and ended up calling me Way-Way for years, even when he could finally say it. Now he just does it to antagonize me.
“Oh, not much,” I deadpan. “Just a typical night hangin’ out in the ER.”
He nods once. “Fun times.”
“Yeah, real fun.” I stare at him with intense narrowed eyes. His reflect back, except they’re filled with shame and guilt. I remember the previous times he felt awful for putting us through this and then trying to simmer down my frustration. “Are you in pain right now?”
“Nah.” He jerks his thumb. “Mr. IV over here is pumpin’ the good shit in me.”
“Good. Then you won’t feel anythin’ when I punch you in the face.”
His eyes beam with amusement. “I’d probably feel that.”
I roll my eyes. “I dunno whether to hug you or beat your ass. I’m so angry. And sad. But mostly, scared. You lost a lot of blood.”
“I know. They’ve been givin’ me that too.” He nods toward the other IV.
Grabbing a chair, I sit closer. “Talk to me. What happened yesterday that made you do this?”
I’m not sure how else to ask, so I blurt it out. He knows I want answers.
His gaze looks past me as he lifts a shoulder.
“I dunno how to explain it. There’s this overwhelming doom feeling when it comes to depression.
Like the stress of havin’ to be an adult and make grown-up decisions.
The expectations of being the oldest sibling.
The pressure to impress Dad and do a good job on the ranch.
There’s this underlying sadness that consumes me in weird ways and it’s uncontrollable.
Even when there isn’t anything particularly making me sad, it’s just there—haunting and taunting me.
I want to curl up in a ball and sleep through the pain, but I can’t.
I have responsibilities, so I try to ignore it and do everything in my power to distract myself, but eventually, it becomes unbearable.
I needed to release the pain, even if it was momentarily.
Eventually, it becomes an impulse I can’t fight anymore.
That moment right before I pass out is when I’m finally numb, and then it becomes somethin’ I’m desperate to feel again and again. Relief.”
Every word of his confession stabs me in the gut. The weird sadness? I feel that, too. The pressure and stress—check and check. That level of pain, searching for relief, I also feel waves of it. Whether it’s mine or his I’m experiencing, I don’t always know.
“Unfortunately, I do get it,” I say softly, reaching for his hand. “Though I’ve never thought to do…” I nod toward his thigh, unable to say the words aloud. “I understand the feelin’ of it becomin’ too much.”
“I get the urges and find ways to cope without doing it, but this time, I just…needed to. It was almost like an out-of-body experience. Something I couldn’t control but at the same time like I couldn’t stop once I started.
As soon as I saw the blood, my mind went blank.
The depressive thoughts vanished. I only had to focus on one thing at that moment and that was cuttin’. ”
I noticeably shiver as he talks about it. It’s not that blood makes me squeamish, but just the thought of seeing my own makes me nauseous.
“Doesn’t it hurt when you…do it?”
“Fuck yeah, it does, but it’s like a high.
As soon as the edge of the razor pierces through my skin, my focus is on the physical pain.
My brain stops repeatin’ negative thoughts and my mind goes blank for the first time in weeks, months, or even years.
That’s when the flood of endorphins hits because I’m no longer being told how worthless and unlovable I am. It’s freeing.”
I sink my teeth into the inside of my cheek to prevent my emotions from taking over.
“I went too far tonight,” he admits.
“So you ain’t tryin’ to end your life?” I finally choke out because I need to hear him confirm it.
“No. Just cope with it.”
“So why didn’t you stop before it got as bad as it did?”
He shrugs. “I guess I wanted to see how much I could take so that relief lasted longer.”
My head and heart ache hearing him talk about this, but I’m glad he is. Better to be honest with me so I can hopefully notice the signs before he cuts again. I want him to open up to me before things get worse.
“Trust me, I don’t feel good about it,” he continues. “The guilt of puttin’ y’all through this again. The shame that I relapsed. It ain’t worth it when the consequences are worse. But I didn’t think about ’em at the time.”
Makes sense. All he could think about was relief.
“What about seein’ a therapist? Or psychiatrist? Get somethin’ to help with the depression so it’s at least a bit more bearable when you feel it takin’ over your mind.”
“I did all that before, remember? The meds made me feel numb as shit—and not in a good way—and gave me the worst neurological side effects. Talkin’ about my teenage problems to an adult just made me feel like an idiot.”
“You’re not, and there are other variations of meds you can try. It ain’t a one-size-fits-all drug. Everyone’s brain chemistry responds differently to medication. You gotta keep tryin’ till you find the right ones.”
“That sounds like a pain in the ass,” he mutters.
“You are a pain in the ass,” I retort.
He chuckles. “Yeah, yeah. What else is new?”
“Nothin’ apparently.” I snort, though he knows I’m only giving him shit. “I better let the others in so you can finally get some rest.”
Standing, I lean over the bed and wrap my arms around him. He’s stiff at first, not sure if he should reciprocate, but eventually, he does.
“I love you, ya know?” I tell him, leaning back.
He rests his head back on the pillow and nods. “Yeah, I love ya too.”
I step around the chair to walk toward the door, but then he grabs my attention. “Waylon.”
Facing him, I lift a brow. “Yeah?”
His tortured expression makes my heart sink. “I’m sorry for puttin’ you through this again.”
One side of my mouth lifts at how genuine he sounds. Although my emotions are threatening to spill over at seeing him like this, I force a small smile to give him some reassurance. “I know. Don’t worry about it, okay?”
He nods firmly with pursed lips, fighting back his own emotions.
When I go toward the exit, there’s a stabbing pain in my chest that has me blowing out a sharp breath. I swear, he’s going to give me a heart attack one day. These anxiety attacks come and go, mostly during high-stress situations, but nevertheless, they’re annoying and inconvenient.
Before I get to the hallway, one of Wilder’s machines beeps at an ungodly high-pitched volume. A nurse barrels in before I even have time to turn around and see what’s going on.
His eyes are rolled back as his body convulses.
“What’s happening?” I blurt to the nurse, but she ignores me as she holds his head in place.
More nurses enter, pulling me out of the way, and soon, I’m standing at the end of his bed, watching helplessly.
“What’s goin’ on?” Dad asks as he and Mom walk in. My siblings are close behind.
“I-I dunno. We were talkin’ and he was fine, but then suddenly, he—”
“He’s seizing,” one of the nurses responds. “I need everyone out, please. I’ll come get you when he’s stabilized.”
Another nurse pushes us out into the hallway. My chest feels like it’s going to explode and there’s nothing I can do about it because my twin brother—my other half who shares similar feelings and physical pain with me—is in there, fighting for his life.
And mine.
Because my life will be over if he doesn’t survive this.