25. 25 – Alyss – six months ago
25 – Alyss – six months ago
I t’s raining.
Heavy, sleeting sheets of water come down sideways, drenching me in seconds as I trudge down yet another side street, check another alley. My thin jacket is soaked through, my jeans ruined at the bottom.
The storm is growing stronger.
My phone buzzes in my hand. I can barely hear Chess as I lift it to my ear.
“… where you are.” His voice flickers in and out. “… nothing…keep looking.”
The phone goes dead in my hand, the battery giving out after hours of swapping updates that are the same every fucking time.
Yes , I think. I’ll keep looking.
Because he didn’t come home.
He always comes home.
But he went out last night, and he didn’t come back.
I’ve called in every favor we have. Half the city is out tonight, searching for Adam Lidell. The police aren’t interested in what they see as a gang rat disappearance, and Adam would kill me himself if I brought more eyes on us.
So I’ll keep searching.
My lips feel numb, water soaking down the collar of my jacket as I glance down the next alley with a frown. I lift my hand to cover my eyes from the rain, trying to make out any movement, any clue.
I can’t see in the weather. It’s too dark, too wet.
I glance over my shoulder. My hand slips down to the holster inside my jacket, and I slide out the gun.
Just in case.
I can’t hear my own footsteps as I make my way down that narrow path. Giant dumpsters from the shitty club pulsing dance music next to us block my way, and I shove them aside, tossing the bags that have been left to rot out of the way and grimacing at the muck that coats my hands.
I pause to wipe them on my ruined trousers.
He’s not here.
Empty. This one is empty, just like all the rest.
I give a cursory glance at the pile of bags against the wall. Only the thinnest strip of light from the emergency exit beside us illuminates it, leaving shadows and phantoms behind.
I nearly miss it. Nearly miss the hand that twitches, the tips tinged blue despite the red tint of the light.
My gun clatters to the floor, skittering away from me.
It’s not him.
That’s what I tell myself as I rip the trash away, bags spilling open and covering me with rotting garbage as I throw them aside.
It’s not him.
Horrific enough, for one of the fucking unfortunate souls who have the bad luck to live on the streets of this city, but it’s not my Adam.
Not Adam.
Not—
His face is ashen; blue, bloodless, crusted lips parting as he blinks at me hazily. They move, twist, as I push the final bag off his chest, a ragged, raw cry ripping from my throat.
He’s alive.
He’s alive.
“Adam.” I’m panting, on my knees, pulling him into me. His head lolls against my lap, blond curls plastered against his skull. His pulse feels barely there beneath my fingers, long moments ticking past between sluggish thumps. “ Adam !”
I stare in horror at the foam that appears at his mouth, brushing it away as if it might change anything. As if it might stop what I know is happening, no matter how I wish it were otherwise.
Because I’ve seen it before.
My eyes travel down. The needle is still in his arm.
“Damn you.” I grip his shoulders, shaking him. “You fucking idiot. You promised me!”
You promised me you wouldn’t be like Dad.
You promised.
I scream for help down the alleyway, praying that someone will hear me. But nobody comes. “I’m going to get help. You need an ambulance.”
Adam shakes his head, the barest tilt. His cold fingers press my arm. “ Lyss .”
It sounds wrong, broken and slurred. But he says it again, as my face crumples. “Ly- ss .”
“I’m here.” I’m crying now, pushing his hair back from his face with trembling fingers. “I’ve got you, Ad. It’s going to be alright. You’re going to be fine. I’m taking you home, and Chess is going to beat your ass for panicking us all. Or he can hold you down, and I’ll do it.”
He mumbles something, and I lean closer, trying to hear. I press my ear up against his mouth as my heart tears and rips, trying to make out the words.
“ Won…der .”
“Wonder?” I’ve heard of it, heard the whispers, but I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter where you were. Help is coming.”
I shift, trying to slide his head off my lap so I can bang on the emergency door, run to the front of the club and get him help .
But my brother twists under my hands. His limbs begin to jerk, arms and legs twisting like a stiff, broken doll. And the noises – I will never forget these noises. Moans that cut off from his lips, stolen away by the rain that still pelts our faces as he seizes.
He doesn’t stop. Not for a long time. Too long.
He’s so cold. I tug at my jacket, ripping it off and wrapping it around him.
Rocking him.
Because I know. As his breathing slows, turns to a gurgle as the heroin fills his bloodstream. As it steals the space in his lungs.
My brother will not be coming home.
So I hold him. I hold him, and I talk. I tell him my favorite memories of when we were little, the three of us causing chaos through the clubhouse, hiding from my father and Rab as they stomped up and down, pretending they couldn’t see us.
I tell him the good memories, and I push the bad ones away.
I keep talking even after he stops moving.
I stay with him for a long time. Until it’s light outside, and the rain has stopped.
Until Chess comes, his face wet with tears as he pries my icy, numb fingers off his cold best friend. As he wraps a blanket around me and carries me away, even as my fingers shred his face beneath my nails for trying to separate us. For leaving him there.
I scream.
I scream for Adam. For my twin.
We were never supposed to be separated. And I don’t know why – I have no explanation, no reason at all for why my brother, my fearless, strong twin, ended up in an alleyway so far away from our territory with his veins full of heroin and a needle in his arm.
All I have is a single word.
Wonder.