Chapter 33
INVISIBLE SHACKLES
NATE
One thousand and forty-seven dots. That's how many I've counted on this section of ceiling tile above my bed. The one with the water stain that looks like a bird with a broken wing.
Fitting, I guess.
My body feels like it's been turned inside out and scraped raw. Every muscle aches with this deep, bone-deep exhaustion that makes me want to crawl out of my own skin.
The detox from whatever shit Monty pumped into me is like having the flu, food poisoning, and the worst hangover of your life all at once. My hands won't stop shaking, and there's this constant nausea rolling through my gut like a tide that never retreats.
The stab wound throbs with each heartbeat, a reminder of how close I came to bleeding out on that warehouse floor.
Sometimes I wish I had.
Would've been easier than this—lying here with invisible shackles wrapped around my mind, holding me prisoner in a body that won't cooperate and thoughts that won't shut the fuck up.
Jake's dead.
The words echo in my skull like a broken record, but they don't feel real.
Nothing feels real anymore.
It's like I'm watching my life through thick glass, everything muted and distorted. The grief sits in my chest like a stone, too heavy to lift, too sharp to swallow.
I haven't cried.
Not once.
Not when Mom told me, her voice breaking like glass.
Not when Nick came by yesterday, his eyes red-rimmed and lost.
Not when the nurses whispered about how sorry they were for my loss.
The tears are there, I can feel them building behind my eyes like a dam about to burst, but they won't come. Maybe I'm too empty. Maybe I've finally reached the bottom of whatever well I've been drawing from all these years.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I grip the bed rail until my knuckles go white.
The withdrawal symptoms are a special kind of hell—sweating one minute, shivering the next, muscles cramping like they're trying to tear themselves apart. My lungs still burn from the smoke, each breath a reminder of that burning building, of Jake's blood on my hands, of everything I couldn't save.
The door opens, and another white coat walks in.
Dr. Fallows, according to his badge.
He's older than the others, maybe fifty, with kind eyes that have seen too much. He moves with the careful efficiency of someone who's delivered bad news more times than he can count.
"How are you feeling today, Nate?" He asks, pulling up my chart on his tablet.
I don't answer.
Haven't spoken to anyone in four days.
What's the point?
Words can't bring Jake back and they definitely can't undo what happened.
He checks my vitals, examines the healing wound on my stomach, makes notes. All the usual shit.
I keep counting ceiling tiles, trying to lose myself in the mindless repetition.
One thousand and forty-eight. One thousand and forty-nine.
"Your blood work is improving," he says, setting the tablet aside.
"The fentanyl is clearing your system, though you'll continue to experience withdrawal symptoms for another week or two.
The stab wound is healing well, no signs of infection.
And your lungs are clearing up nicely from the smoke inhalation. "
He pauses, studying me with those too-knowing eyes.
"You're lucky to be alive, Nate."
Something bitter must flash across my face because he immediately holds up a hand.
"I know," he says quietly. "I know that doesn't feel like luck right now. I can see you're struggling. Survivor's guilt is common in situations like this. But you need to understand—there was nothing you could have done to save your brother."
Bullshit.
The word screams in my head, but I don't give it voice.
I should have been faster.
Should have seen it coming.
Should have—
"You'd just been injected with a potentially lethal dose of fentanyl," Dr. Fallows continues, reading the anger in my expression.
"You were barely conscious when your friends found you and barely alive by the time the paramedics got to you.
You had a knife wound that nearly killed you.
What exactly do you think you could have done? "
I turn away from him, back to the ceiling tiles.
One thousand and fifty. One thousand and fifty-one.
But his words dig under my skin like splinters.
"Jake made it to the hospital," he says gently. "He was only just holding on by a miracle when they brought him in. I can see you thinking about that—about how if you'd been there, if you'd been able to help..."
One thousand and fifty-two, one thousand and fifty-three, one thousand—
"Your bloodstream was poisoned," Dr. Fallows says, as if he's reading my thoughts.
"We couldn't use anything from you for at least seventy-two hours even if we could have done anything to save him.
.." He trails off, and I stop counting because there is something in his tone that makes me look at him.
Really look.
There's something he's not saying.
His jaw is tight, like he's holding back words that want to spill out.
What?
The question burns in my eyes, and he sees it.
He’s quiet for a long moment, then pulls a chair next to my bed. The fact that he’s sitting down, settling in, makes my stomach twist with dread.
This is serious talk posture.
This is bad news posture.
“Jake’s injuries were severe,” he begins carefully. “The gunshot caused catastrophic internal bleeding. We managed to stabilize him for a while, but one of the bullets destroyed a large portion of his liver. He needed an urgent transplant to survive.”
My heart starts pounding, each beat echoing in my ears.
The question forms before I can stop it—And? What then?
“There wasn’t a viable donor match in time,” he says quietly. “Even if there had been… even if you’d been clean and medically stable, you wouldn’t have been able to help him.”
The words don’t make sense.
I stare at him, trying to piece them together.
What do you mean?
Dr. Fallows exhales slowly, like he’s bracing for impact.
“Nate, when we were running compatibility tests—trying to find possible donors—we ran your blood alongside Jake’s. That’s standard for family members in emergencies.”
The room tilts and my skin prickles.
And?
“You weren’t a match,” he says quietly. “And when they ran the DNA panel, it showed something unexpected—you and Jake don’t share the same paternal markers.”
The air leaves my lungs in a rush.
The ceiling blurs and my hands grip the bed rail to keep from shattering completely.
What are you saying?
The question must be written in the shock on my face, in the way my world is visibly crumbling.
"Jake wasn't your biological brother, Nate. Half-brother, maybe, sharing the same mother, but not the same father."
I didn’t think it was possible for my life to shatter again after everything.
Everything I thought I knew, everything I've built my identity around, crumbles like a house of cards.
The denial must be written all over my face, but even as I think it, I know it's not.
I know it explains things—why Jake and I looked so different, why I always felt like I was fighting twice as hard to prove I belonged in this family, why Mom sometimes looked at me with those sad, guilty eyes.
"I'm sorry," Dr. Fallows says softly, reading the devastation in my expression.
"I know this is a lot to process on top of everything else.
But I thought you should know that there was quite literally nothing you could have done.
Even if you'd been standing right there, healthy and ready to help, you couldn't have saved him.
Your blood, your organs, your bone marrow—none of it would have been compatible. "
I close my eyes, and suddenly I'm eight years old again, watching Jake sleep in the bed next to mine, promising the darkness that I'd always keep him safe.
One single tear finally comes.
All the grief I've been holding back, all the guilt and rage and helplessness, it all comes through one single tear. Dr. Fallows doesn't try to stop me or comfort me with empty words. He just sits there, a quiet presence in the storm of my breaking apart.
And maybe that's exactly what I need—someone who understands that some pain is too big for comfort, too deep for easy fixes.
The door opens and Mom walks in, and the second our eyes meet, her face crumbles.
She knows that I know.
The secret she's been carrying, the lie that's been eating at her—it's written all over my face.
"Nate, honey," she says, her voice breaking on the words.
Dr. Fallows stands up, his chair scraping against the floor.
"I'll leave the two of you to talk." He moves toward the door, pausing beside Mom.
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, "but he had to know there was nothing he could have done."
The door closes with a soft click, and then it's just us.
Mom and I.
The air between us is thick with twenty-one years of unspoken truth. Tears are already streaming down her face, carving paths through the makeup she probably put on to look strong for me. But there's no hiding from this. Not anymore.
She takes a step toward my bed, her hand reaching out like she's going to touch me, comfort me, make this all better with a mother's touch.
"Don't." The word comes out flat, emotionless.
Dead.
She freezes, her hand suspended in the air between us.
"Nate, please. I wanted to tell you. I was going to, I—"
"And when the fuck were you planning to do that?" The emptiness in my chest is filling with something else now.
Something hot and sharp and dangerous.
"It's not as easy—"
"It never fucking is with you, is it?" The fury hits me like a tidal wave, washing away the numbness and leaving something raw and burning in its place. "There's always an excuse, always a reason why you can't do the right thing."
She flinches like I've slapped her, takes a step back.
Good.
She should feel something, anything, after what she's done.
The pieces are clicking together in my head now, forming a picture that makes my stomach turn.
All those years of Scott's hatred, his cruelty, the way he looked at me like I was some kind of disease he couldn't cure.
The way he'd come home drunk and take his anger out on me specifically, while Jake got to hide in his room.
The way he'd tell me I was worthless, that I'd never amount to anything, that I didn't belong in this family.
"This is why he could never love me," I say, the words coming out in a whisper that sounds like breaking glass. "That's why he hated me so much. I wasn't even his."
Mom's face crumples, and she shakes her head frantically.
"No, Nate, that's not—Scott had his problems, but that wasn't about—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharper this time, cutting through her bullshit excuses. "Don't you dare try to defend him. Or yourself. You fucking lied to me. My whole life. You kept lying. And now you're going to stand there and tell me you had your reasons?"
She opens her mouth to say something, probably some sob story about how hard it was, how she was scared, how she was trying to protect me.
But I'm done listening to her lies.
"Get out."
"Nate, please—"
"I said get the fuck out!" The scream tears out of my throat, loud enough that I hear movement in the hallway outside.
The machines around my bed start beeping frantically as my heart rate spikes, and the stab wound in my stomach pulls tight with the force of my anger.
The door opens, and Dr. Fallows appears, his eyes moving between Mom and me, taking in the scene.
"Mrs. Sullivan, I think it's best if you leave now. Nate needs to rest."
Mom looks at me with those pleading eyes, the same ones she used to use when Scott was drunk and angry and I was the one standing between him and her. The same ones she used when she needed me to lie for her, to cover for her, to clean up her messes.
"I’m sorry," she whispers, but she's already moving toward the door.
She pauses at the threshold, her hand on the door handle.
"Jake was your brother in every way that mattered. And nothing can take that away."
The door closes behind her with a soft click, and I'm alone again.
Just me and the ceiling tiles and the steady beep of the machines that are keeping me tethered to this fucked-up excuse for a life.
I close my eyes and try to find that numbness again, that blessed emptiness that kept me from feeling anything. But it's gone now, replaced by this burning rage that sits in my chest like acid.
I hate this hospital, this bed, this fucking life that's built on lies and broken promises.
Most of all, I hate myself for believing her. For spending twenty-one years thinking I was part of a family when I was just the unwanted reminder of her mistakes.
The withdrawal symptoms are getting worse.
My hands are shaking so badly I can barely grip the bed rails, and there's this constant nausea rolling through my gut that makes me want to vomit. The stab wound throbs with each heartbeat, and my lungs still burn from the smoke.
Everything hurts, inside and out.
I try to go back to counting ceiling tiles, but the numbers jumble together in my head.
One thousand... something.
Fuck, what's the point anyway?
The tiles aren't going anywhere and neither am I, apparently. Stuck in this bed, in this room, in this life that doesn't even belong to me.
Jake's face swims in front of my eyes, and for a moment, the anger fades. He had Scott's eyes, I realize now.
The door opens again, and a nurse comes in to check on me. She's young, maybe early twenties, with kind eyes and gentle hands. She adjusts my IV, checks my bandages, makes notes on her tablet.
"How are you feeling?" she asks, and there's genuine concern in her voice.
I want to laugh.
How am I feeling? Is that a sick joke?
I don't say anything to her, I just stare at the ceiling and count the tiles until she leaves.
One thousand and sixty-three. One thousand and sixty-four.
The numbers don't mean anything, but they're something to hold onto. Something that doesn't lie or break promises or tear your world apart with a single sentence.
The fentanyl withdrawal is hitting hard now, making my skin crawl and my muscles ache. But I fight sleep, because sleep means dreams, and dreams mean seeing Jake's face, hearing his voice, remembering all the ways I failed him.
One thousand and sixty-five. One thousand and sixty-six.
I count until the numbers lose all meaning, until they're just sounds in my head, until the anger fades back into that blessed emptiness.