Wrapping Up the Chaos #2
Patrick’s eyes flash. Mark lets out a low whistle, like he’s impressed by my balls or amused by my stupidity, I can’t tell which. James, as expected, doesn’t say a word. He just cracks his knuckles like a countdown.
“I’m going to crush you, ” Patrick snarls, stepping closer. “ You’re just a fucking junkie, so stop acting like you’re better than the rest of us. Like you don’t stink of the same shit you sold us for years.”
I shrug, even though my heartbeat’s climbing. “The difference is, I stopped bathing in it. You? You’re still soaked.”
That does it.
Patrick lunges first, fast and reckless, and I barely have time to sidestep before his fist clips my jaw. It stings, but I’ve had worse. I shove him back hard enough to send him stumbling into the wall, but James is already on me before I can react.
A punch sinks deep into my ribs. Another crashes into my shoulder. I’m grabbed by my backpack and it throws off my balance. I try to swing back, get one clean hit in on Patrick, right across the cheek, but the three of them are on me before I can run away.
Fists. Boots. Elbows. It all blends fast. I hit the ground hard, shoulder first, the air knocked from my lungs. Gravel grinds into my palms as I try to crawl up, but Mark kicks me square in the gut, and I fold again.
Pain floods me completely. I taste blood in my mouth. And I Hear buzzing in my ears.
Somewhere through the blur, I feel the weight of my backpack tear away from me.
“No!” I choke, trying to grab it, fingers brushing the strap,
A boot stomps on my hand. I scream. Sharp. Raw. Real.
Fuck. My. Life.
Patrick leans down, face inches from mine, breathing hard. There’s blood on his knuckles, probably mine, but I don’t have enough strength left to focus on anything besides trying to breathe, trying to stay alive.
“You’re not better than us, Kaze. You just fell harder. Good luck getting back to Tommy, ” he spits, grinning like he’s already won, then laughs and turns.
And just like they appeared, they’re now gone.
I try to get up, but my body screams in protest. A sharp, white-hot pain sears through my ribs when I move, like something inside me cracked or snapped.
My hand throbs where Mark stomped it, each finger pulsing with the rhythm of my heartbeat.
My legs are shaky, useless, and the metallic taste in my mouth tells me I bit my tongue or maybe split my lip, hard to tell.
Their footsteps fade.
Their laughter echoes down the alley like a punchline to a joke I was stupid enough to star in.
I stay on the ground, breathing through clenched teeth, vision spinning in slow, sickening loops.
The package is gone.
The job’s blown.
Tommy betrayed me.
And worse, I let it all happen.
* * *
I don’t know how long I stay in that alley. Minutes? Hours? The world’s a blur of heat, concrete, and ringing in my ears.
When I finally open my eyes again, the mid afternoon buzz is gone. The city sounds different, quieter, slower. The chaotic rhythm of lunchtime has faded into a dull, distant murmur. Probably late-afternoon now.
Shit.
I blacked out. From exhaustion. From pain. Or maybe from the shame.
I try to push myself off the ground, palms scraping against gravel, but my arm trembles and gives out beneath me. Pain radiates from somewhere deep in my ribs. I wince, biting down a groan as my vision flares white for a second.
But I have to get up. I have to.
They ambushed me. Tommy fucked me over. He knew. He fucking knew this was going to happen. He sent me to retrieve that package, knowing damn well it was a trap, and now it’s gone. Patrick, Mark, and James, those pieces of shit took it, and I let it happen.
That was probably his plan all along. He was never going to let me go. People who live the kind of life I’ve been living… we’re never able to leave.
And now, he has an excuse for not letting me go. No package, no money, no freedom.
I reach for the inside pocket of my jacket, but my hand moves too slowly. So I fumble for my jeans instead, searching my phone. I need to call someone. Anyone. I need to figure out what the hell to do next.
But instead of cold metal, my fingers brush up against soft plastic.
No.
I already know what it is. I don’t even need to look.
The pills.
I pull the little sack out and stare at it, my breath shallow. They’re still here. Tucked away like a secret I swore I’d forget.
I shouldn’t…
I can’t.
But the pain is everywhere. My ribs feel like broken glass, my jaw aches, and my hand might be sprained or worse. My whole body is screaming. But louder than all of that, there’s temptation.
It doesn’t knock. It never does. It just screams.
Take one. Just one.
It’ll help. Just to numb the pain. Just to think clearly.
But I know better. I know exactly what happens after just one.
And still… I stare.
And still… I don’t put them away.
And still… I swallow them.
* * *
Everything feels distant. Muffled. Like I’m underwater.
My legs move, but I’m not sure I’m the one giving the orders. My ribs still scream with every step, but the pain feels… separate. Like it belongs to someone else. The pills, whatever the fuck they were, are doing their job. Too well.
I don’t even know what I took. Didn’t care enough to check. I just needed less. Less pain. Less panic. Less of everything.
The alley is gone.
Now it’s just me, walking through Stormhaven, trying to find my bike, with dried blood on my shirt and nothing but static in my head. Faces blur past me. Cars hum. Somewhere, someone’s playing guitar, and it sounds warped like it’s bending in the middle.
And then it hits me. Not pain. Not guilt. Just… a single, sharp thought cutting through the fog: I need money.
I need to pay Tommy and fix this. Somehow.
I need to be smarter than this. Smarter than the pain, smarter than the drugs, smarter than Tommy’s leash tightening around my neck.
And that’s when the second thought arrives. Heavy. Final.
The guitar. I have to sell my guitar.
It was a gift from my parents. A special edition. Rare. Expensive. Worth enough to buy me time, maybe buy me mercy.
I don’t think. I just move.
I drag myself onto the bike, every muscle screaming, but I bite down the pain and turn the key. The engine roars to life beneath me, too loud, too sharp. I wince, but I ride anyway, head pounding, hands barely steady on the throttle.
Stormhaven blurs past. Colors are too bright, and sounds are too distorted. It all feels wrong, like I’m trapped in the skin of someone I used to be.
My thoughts won’t hold still. I can’t tell if it’s the pain, the high, or both. Probably both.
I ride like a ghost, retracing old routes, muscles moving on instinct. Before I know it, I’m parking outside the my parents apartment, the place that should be my safe space and never was. I kill the engine and just sit there for a second, the silence rushing in too fast.
Then I climb the stairs like I’m dreaming. Every step echoes, until I unlock the door.
The place smells like home.
Ups. It’s home.
I don’t linger. I head straight to my room.
And there it is— my guitar. Leaning against the wall, where it always waits for me. Same spot. Always patient.
I stare at it.
My old friend. My only constant. The one thing I’ve never let go of, even when everything else burned. The one thing that’s been with me longer than the depression, the anxiety, the nightmares, the pills, the deals and the screw ups.
But she’s not the thing that matters most. Not really.
K.
Her smile flashes through my mind, uninvited. The way her eyes soften when she looks at me. Her voice. Her smell… lavender. God, her smell.
I close my eyes and feel the air leave my lungs like I’ve been punched again.
She deserves better. She is better than all this.
I shake the thought while grabbing the guitar case. My hands are trembling, maybe from the drugs, maybe from the fact that I’m beat up, or just because I’m actually doing this.
But that’s what happens when we fuck everything up. We trade pieces of ourselves just to scrub off the blood, sweat, and tears left behind by our choices.
I don’t go to my usual music shop. Instead, I leave my hometown, the place fifteen minutes away from Stormhaven where I spent my whole life, and head toward the city where I started college a couple of years ago.
I can’t do this so close to home. I Won’t.
Too many eyes, too many questions. So I keep going, and going, until I reach the center of Stormhaven again and find it.
A place that’s older, quieter. A place that doesn’t know me. Doesn’t care.
Better this way.
At least… I think it is.
K. suspected I was from here when we first met, because of how familiar I seemed with the town.
But the truth is, that familiarity only exists because I always kept my distance from home, never feeling like I belonged there.
Coming to Stormhaven to study was, for me, a way to escape the suffocating control and excessive worries of my parents.
That’s why, even though I spend most of my time here, I don’t really live here.
Or maybe I do… Maybe this broken part of me has always lived in Stormhaven.
After all, it’s here that everything that mattered—or still matters—has stayed: the parties, the drugs, the dealer, the studies, my best friend, and now, my guitar too.
The bell above the door chimes when I step in, and the world tilts. Everything’s too bright, too loud. My legs are unsteady. My jaw aches from clenching.
The guy behind the counter is old. Late sixties, maybe older. Clean eyes. White beard. Wears a flannel shirt like he’s been wearing the same one for twenty years. He glances up, sees the guitar case, and nods.
Good. No questions. No judgment. Just a trade and a goodbye.
I set it down on the counter and flipped the latches. My hands tremble slightly, maybe from the pain, maybe from the drugs, maybe both.
He opens the case slowly, carefully, like he understands. Like he knows he’s about to be holding sacred.
“Special edition, ” he murmurs, running a hand across the body. “Damn fine piece. These don’t show up often.”
“Yeah, ” I say. Voice rough. “Selling.”
He looks up at me then. Eyes narrowing just a bit. “You sure?”
I nod, jaw tight.
“Doesn’t look like something you’d let go of easily, ” he adds, voice soft. “Not unless something’s wrong.”
“Look, man, ” I snap, more defensive than I want to sound. “I’m not here for a therapy session. Just the money.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just sighs.
“I’ve seen a lot of people walk in here carrying more than just guitars, ” he says. “I know that look. And I know what it costs to let something like this go.”
I look away, lips pressed tight. My throat burns. The high is still there, but it’s slipping, and his words hit harder than I want to admit.
“I’m not gonna leave you hanging, ” he continues. “I’ll take it. But it’s not going on the shelf. It’ll stay in the back, where no one can touch it. You come back for it when you’re ready. It’ll still be yours.”
My chest tightens. I don’t want that kindness. I can’t afford to feel anything right now.
But I nod anyway.
He counts out the money, tucks it into an envelope, and hands it to me without another word.
I take it and turn to leave. Fast. Before I crack. Before I say something stupid.
Outside, the air feels too cold.
I climb on the bike, shove the envelope into my jacket, and pull the helmet down over my face.
Time to go back to Tommy.
Time to finish this shit.
* * *
I’m exhausted. Every nerve is frayed, every limb a dead weight. Whatever pills I had left, gone. I took them. Swallowed them without thinking. There was no other way to deal with the pain. Not the bruises. Not the broken ribs. Not the voice in my head saying I’m spiraling. Again.
The transaction with Tommy was… smooth. Too smooth. He didn’t ask questions. Didn’t even look surprised when I handed over the envelope of cash.
He just smiled, smug, knowing.
“Always happy to do business with you, ” he said.
Like it was just another Saturday.
No promise. No clear answer. Just that malicious grin and the silence after.
I told him this was the last job I would take. The last deal. That I was out.
He didn’t say I wasn’t.
So that has to count for something. Right?
I cling to that thought like it’s a lifeline.
Eventually, when I get home, everything goes sideways fast.
The moment I step through the door, my mother’s voice cuts through the fog in my brain like a siren.
“Oh my God, Kaze!” she screams. “What happened to you?!”
I blink at her, struggling to stay upright. The walls shift under my feet, like the floor’s trying to tip me sideways.
“Don’t, just, don’t yell, ” I mumble, raising a shaky hand. “It’s too loud…”
I don’t even know if I’m saying it out loud or just thinking it.
She rushes toward me, hands reaching for my face, my shoulders, trying to figure out what’s broken, where I’m bleeding.
“You’re high, Jesus, Kaze, again?! What did you take? What are you doing to yourself?!”
Her voice drills into my skull, sharp and relentless. Panic climbs out of her throat and into the air, thick and hot and pressing.
My ears ring. The lights are too bright. The world spins like a bad trip layered over a worse dream.
And then, K.
K.
Her smile. Her voice. Her laugh. Her eyes, when she looks at me, look like I might be worth saving.
I need to hear her.
I need to know I didn’t destroy everything for nothing.
Fuck Tommy. Fuck the pills.
I just need her.
I fumble in my jacket and pull out my phone. The screen is cracked and splintered from when they hurt me in the alley.
I can barely hold it. My fingers feel like they’re wrapped in wet cloth. But I see the screen flicker. My mom’s trying to help me press something, maybe a number, maybe take the phone away. I don’t know.
But then, I see the messages.
K: I need you.
K: Please call me.
K: Where are you?
Something inside me snaps into place. Or maybe it ignites.
Adrenaline. Desperation. Love. Whatever it is, it shoves me back into motion.
I’m on my feet before I realize I had even sat down.
“Who needs you? Kaze, stop!” my mom’s shouting behind me. “You can’t drive like that, stop!”
But I’m already gone, out the door. Down the steps. Onto the bike.
She needs me.
That’s all I know. That’s all that matters.
I rev the engine and tear out into the street. The wind lashes against me, the world smeared in streaks of light and speed.
And then, headlights.
Coming fast. Too fast.
I can’t even dodge. I don’t even flinch.
The last thought that cuts through the chaos like a blade is that she needs me, and I’m failing her.