Chapter 35 It’s All Downhill From Here
IT’S ALL DOWNHILL FROM HERE
NATE
“So we just need you to sign here, Mr. Sullivan,” the nurse says, pointing to a clipboard full of discharge papers.
Her voice is gentle, practiced. Detached. Like she’s talking to a ghost who happens to still be breathing.
My hand shakes as I scrawl something that barely resembles my name. The pen scratches across the page, ink bleeding like an open wound.
This wheelchair feels like a cage.
I can’t feel much below the knees anymore—just a dull, hollow throb that reminds me I’m still here when I wish I wasn’t.
The withdrawal tremors haven’t let up—every nerve in my body buzzing like static, muscles cramping so hard I swear I can feel my bones grinding against each other. My skin itches from the inside out, the nausea rolls in waves, and my hands—fuck, my hands—won’t stop shaking.
They used to build things.
Fix things.
Now they can barely hold a fucking pen.
Nick appears beside me, silent as ever. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes say it all—pity, exhaustion, something close to fear.
He doesn’t speak, just takes the handles of the chair and starts pushing.
The fluorescent lights buzz overhead—this low, needling hum that grates right down my spine. Every sound is unbearable.
The squeak of the gurney wheels.
Shoes on tile.
Monitors chirping.
It’s like the whole world has the volume cranked to max while I’m stuck underwater.
People look at me as I pass and I feel every stare like a thumb pressed into a bruise.
The automatic doors open and the outside world sucker-punches me. Even the cool breeze burns going into my lungs. Everything feels like a threat—cars, sunlight, the damn pavement radiating heat.
Nick gets me into the passenger seat and I try to swallow the sound that escapes when I sit down. Doesn’t matter; it leaks out anyway.
My ribs are screaming.
My abdomen’s on fucking fire.
And my heart? It feels like someone scooped it out and left the hole unpatched.
The door shuts and the silence settles heavy.
Nick doesn’t try to fill it but he knows better than to try to. I mean, there’s nothing to say.
Words can’t fix this.
They can’t rewind time.
They sure as hell can’t bring Jake back.
Town passes by the window in smears of color. It’s familiar, but somehow so fucking wrong now. It’s like I’m watching someone else’s life from behind glass while mine stalls out on the shoulder.
We approach the street the lake house is on and it sparks that old rage—black, fast, corrosive. All the years spent living with lies dressed up as love. I thought I was protecting the only person I trusted.
Turns out I was protecting a stranger.
“I’m not staying there,” I mutter.
“I figured,” Nick says quietly. “Jay’s expecting you.”
Right on cue, my phone buzzes.
Mom
Please come home. We need to talk.
Delete.
Nick pulls up outside Jay’s place and a part of me should feel grateful, but all I feel is dread twisting low in my stomach.
“You know you can always stay with me,” Nick murmurs.
I shake my head. “I’m good.”
We both know I’m anything but.
The elevator ride is a blur of white paint and static humming. I lean on the rail.
Breathing hurts.
Existing hurts.
The higher we go, the thinner the air feels, like grief is sucking all the oxygen out of the building.
Jay’s waiting at the door, pale and worn-out, like he hasn’t slept either. I push past him because I can’t stand to see the pity in his eyes, it burns hotter than the bullet wound.
The spare room is small and bare so it’s perfect.
I collapse on the bed, bones giving out like they’ve finally decided they’re done carrying me. The ceiling’s textured with a million little bumps.
I start counting them, because if I stop counting, I’ll think.
If I think, I’ll break.
Through the wall, I hear Nick’s voice, low and tight.
“Don’t let him out of your sight for the next couple of days. Really keep an eye on him,” he says.
“I will,” Jay answers.
Then the door clicks shut.
Hours drag by and I don’t move.
Don’t eat.
Don’t speak.
Jay hovers in the hallway sometimes, debating knocking, but he doesn’t and I’m glad he doesn’t because talking would feel like trying to hold my insides in with bare hands.
The silence is suffocating but at least it’s safe because when I close my eyes, the gunshot is waiting.
Every.
Single.
Time.
It’s on repeat.
Jake falling.
Blood blooming.
My scream shattering my throat.
The smell of gunpowder.
The moment I realized he wasn’t going to get back up.
I open my eyes again, staring at the ceiling like it can keep me anchored but it doesn’t.
“Hey,” Jay calls gently through the door. “I’m running to the store. You need anything?”
My voice won’t work.
“Okay,” he says softly. “I’ll be just ten minutes. Text me if you need something”
The front door closes and the silence rushes back in, drowning everything.
The apartment hums—fridge, pipes, muffled traffic. I cling to those tiny sounds like they’re proof the world didn’t end in that building. Even though in a lot of ways, it did.
My phone vibrates in my hand. My fingers shake too much to steady the screen but I can see there’s messages from Mom, Ollie, Nick and six from Nora.
I don’t open a single one, instead I scroll through my contacts until my eyes land on a name.
Christian.
The last time I saw him was at that party last summer when Nora came back and when everything started unraveling.
My thumb hesitates. I could delete it. I should delete it.
And instead I should call Nora. Or Nick or Ollie or anyone.
Or I could try to sleep.
Instead, I type—fast.
Nate
Hey man. Can you hook me up? Something strong.
My foot won’t stop tapping. Heart racing, mouth dry. I try to stop my shaking hands by biting me nail in anticipation of a response.
Christian
Yeah bro. I got you. Swing by when you can.
I stare at my reflection on the screen—hollow eyes, bruised face, the ghost of who I was.
The pain quiets for a second.
That’s how I know I’m fucked.
Because quiet shouldn’t feel good.
Not like this.