Chapter Twenty-one
Alexandr Miroslav
“Paris…”
Her eyes seemed to follow mine, because she jolted into motion towards it, plucking up the little bag, and hiding it away in the first drawer she could find.
Her steps were unbalanced, and her movements were choppy, as if her limbs would bump together and send her tumbling at any moment.
“It’s just goddamned–something to perk me up, Sasha. Ever heard of that?” Her words were harsh and spoken as if she were trying to spit out daggers.
“I…” Today seemed to be a stroll down memory lane, because watching Paris lose herself, lose that whetted charm that made her Paris, was like watching my mother.
Only now, I've come to realize that no matter how much older I get, the same sense of uselessness ghosts the edges of my mind.
I spoke carefully, “I think I should call–”
“No!” Her voice was louder than what she probably intended.
“No! You’re not calling anyone. God, why are you like this?
You can’t just waltz in here and do as you please.
I’m sick of this attitude of yours, Alexandr, its-its so–oh God, must you always be this-this-this pest? Showing up when you’re not wanted?”
Her words were coming out tangled and tumbling over each other.
I shook my head and approached slowly, as if she were a wounded animal, not allowing her words to hurt me. Simply because… they weren’t her words. I knew well enough what these drugs forced out of one's mouth. “This is the drugs talking. You don’t mean that–”
“Yes, I do! I-I do, and you know what? You and-and everyone can slit their wrists if they wish because this is who I am.” She spread her arms wide as manic pride filled her eyes. “Yes, exactly, this is who. I. Am.”
She slapped her palm against her chest and choked on her heavy breath.
I barreled on as if she didn’t say a word. “You relapsed, Paris. And that’s okay. It’s okay to take a couple of steps back before continuing forward. I just want to help.”
She gripped the strands at her scalp, pulling on her hair, and groaned. I followed her with a cautious eye as she marched, swaying more like, around the room to find something. “You shut up. Just shut up. Shut up.”
She began chanting the words, her layers of jewelry clinking around her wrists and neck as she moved. The tattered t-shirt she was wearing and silk lounge pants, a fitting statement of the two Paris’ I’ve now come to know, rumpled further with each of her steps.
She’d made it as far as just under the threshold of the bathroom before her legs gave out, and the weight she couldn’t carry further pulled her down.
As if a fire suddenly lit within my muscles, I dove to catch her at the very last second before her head hit the hardwood floor.
She gripped my arms around her before scratching at her throat.
Panic overtook me at the sight, even more so when she began to gurgle.
Someone must have taken control of my body because I moved without thinking into the bathroom, carrying as much of her weight as she would allow when she wasn’t shoving and clawing at me, audibly trying to swallow in what her body wanted out.
“Paris, you need to–listen to me, you need to vomit.” I dragged her to the toilet and positioned her over it as she shook her head almost aggressively.
A shivering wince racked its way through my body at the sounds bouncing around the small room, which only made my words more forceful.
“You’re choking, Paris. You need to vomit it out.
I’m sorry but this is for your own good. I’m sorry.”
With those last two words, I locked her arms behind her back, seizing her movement with one hand and shoving my fingers down her throat with the other.
She forced her head back, trying to get away, and it took a few tries before I could get two fingers past her tongue.
The sounds of her choking and gagging, trying to speak around the spasm in her throat and the space my fingers occupied, drew a sting behind my eyes I urged away.
“I’m sorry.” Now it was my turn to chant as she tried kicking her legs out.
It felt like an eternity before the sounds of her induced vomiting filled the bathroom.
I pulled my fingers away as fast as I could and released her arms from the tight hold I’d had them in, watching as she surged forward to grip the toilet seat and duck her head in as far as she could.
She vomited a few times, trying to speak between each choked pause, but her sobs wouldn't let her. When she ran out of anything else to throw up and was reduced to dry-heaving, I let myself relax, but only by a little.
I was distantly acquainted with bad trips and wouldn’t let my shoulders drop because of it, waiting for the impending crash that always followed.
Really, this could go one of two ways; Paris could continue to direct her anger towards me, only this time with a clear mind, or she could be hit with a sudden wave of exhaustion.
She could be disoriented or grounded. But the shaking and sweating wouldn’t subside fully until at least an hour, depending on everything she consumed.
I prepared for both.
Her body slumped back against my chest as I reached to rip a piece of tissue and wipe her mouth as best I could.
She squirmed only a little before turning to hide her face against my uniform.
I felt slightly out of place as I tried my best to comfort her when her shoulders began to shake, her soft, muffled cries feeling soul-sucking.
Slowly, as if almost afraid—which was strange because I preferred not to allow the weightless rush of fear if I could help it, I let my arms fall around her.
Like a heavy cloak trying to ward off a sharp and icy wind.
But Paris’ cries felt as if someone had shoved a rock down my throat and left me to my solitude. I found myself helpless in stopping any pain she might’ve been feeling because, despite my vague familiarity with the scene, I wasn’t anyone of use for a heart to heart.
I didn’t believe you could fill a cup with an empty pitcher.
“Paris, let’s get you moved, okay?” My words came out softer than I’d thought possible, and I was proud of my voice, vacant of any shakiness.
Her sobs subsided into hiccups as she nodded, disassociated, and I stood on firm legs, carrying her along with me.
When I placed her on her bed, pulling the duvet up to cover her, I stepped back hesitantly, at a loss for what to do next. “Um… Get some sleep.”
Coming up short on what else there was to say, I listened for her sluggish mumble, drowned out by the fatigue in her voice.
My eyes moved to her desk as I retrieved the trash bin and placed it next to her, pulling her chair closer towards her now sleeping form and settling upon it.
It didn’t take long to come down from the adrenaline high of what’d just happened.
And I didn’t want to think about what this would mean for the Founder’s Society.
Of course, it stilted many operations currently at play for me.
I'd have to ask Wolf to cover my turn on keeping an eye on Scott and put a pause on the study marathon I was planning for LAW 400. I was skipping his class enough that there were sure to be consequences, but I didn’t want to give Mr Browne the benefit of the doubt that I was not keeping up with his class work.
It would also mean I’d have to hide something else from Rain.
I let out a deep sigh, willing the clenching in my stomach to go away. My own fatigue washed away the realm of reality in front of me with each slow blink, until whatever my mind could conjure up as a fitting nightmare dragged me under.
“Sasha.”
The name felt wrong. Or.
The voice felt wrong.
“Sasha.”
I lifted my head from where it lay on the cold tiles and looked up.
“Mama.”
My voice was muddled and far away. It sounded young coming out of my throat, my accent thicker than it should be.
My mother stood under the threshold between our bathroom and our short hallway. Her white-blonde hair was shining under the grim lamp; I didn’t know how. She looked beautiful.
She was never like this in my memor–
Her eyes were glowing with life, vivid and present, and she looked filled out. Not as thin and sickly as in my m–
“Sasha. Come here.” I wanted to cry from her soft voice alone, but I couldn’t muster the tears. I couldn’t feel anything. I hadn’t even noticed I was standing until I made my way over to her. Strangely, I was taller than her, felt older.
Had I grown between then and now?
She smiled, pleased, and placed her hands up against my cheeks. “My sweet boy, how you’ve grown.”
Her English was broken, but I understood it all the same, a force of habit, one could say.
“Mom,” I said, the warmth of her hands seeping into me and rendering me motionless. “M-mom, wha–”
“You did so well, Sasha. I’m so proud of you.”
I blinked, then blinked again, swallowing to keep my throat from closing up. My lips parted. “What… do you mean?”
A thud down the hall caught both of our attention, as we tilted our heads towards it. “It’s okay. It’s just your papa.”
I looked back at her, and that smile remained painted across her lips.
“Mama, what’s going on?” Her face… She was so beautiful. She stood in a way that made everything lighter. Was she always like this?
She sighed, one hand dropping to her side and the other sliding down to rub my arm in a soothing motion. “You helped her, Sasha. I’m so proud of you.”
The light above us flickered. I blinked against the growing itch behind my eyes. “Mama.” It almost came out as a sob. “Helped who?”
An urge somewhere in a long-forgotten part of my soul wanted to surge forward and hug her. Except my vision was blurring, and maybe that was why my limbs weren’t complying.
“Paris.” Her voice was light, her tone, obvious.
A prickly feeling slid down my cheek, and when I lifted a hand to swipe it away, I found that I was crying.
She took both my hands in hers. They were soft, maternal. I didn’t know how else to explain it.