14. “Should I StayShould I Go”
Chapter 14
“Should I Stay or Should I Go”
Sascha - Age 18, 1988
I lie on the bow of the boat, my body swaying with the ebb and flow of the waves. The warm sun blankets my skin in a comforting embrace, while the distant chirping of birds adds a melodic soundtrack to my peaceful surroundings. This moment, drifting on the calm waters, is pure relaxation. It’s a well-deserved break from dealing with Michael and his incessant need to push my buttons.
I’ve told Ivy about our tumultuous past, so she understands why I can’t stand him. But I’m sure she thinks I’m exaggerating. She views him as kind and charming, just like everyone else does. But I refuse to let him spoil this tranquil moment for me. I’ll simply focus on the soothing melodies of the birds and bask in this moment of serenity.
RING!
Dude, that bird is too loud. He needs to chill out.
RING!
My eyes snap open, searching frantically for any signs of movement. The dense foliage of the tall trees obscures my view, but I know that cunning Dodo is lurking out there on the shore. His beady eyes watching my every move, his feathers ruffled with mischief.
RING!
My eyes fly open with a start, jolting me from my peaceful dream. The incessant ringing of the telephone, my own line that I had begged my parents for, shatters the quiet of my room. My head throbs with frustration as I groggily reach for the receiver, wishing I could turn back time and reconsider my request.
“What?” I croak in a sleepy and pointedly annoyed voice.
“Sascha, do you happen to have Taz’s phone number?” Ivy asks urgently.
“Why would I have his number?”
“Never mind, Corey gave it to me. Please call him for me,” she pleads.
“What do you mean? Why can’t you call him yourself?”
“I’m running late for the game. Everyone’s waiting for me. Corey thinks he’s in trouble because he’s not there. The coach is furious, and Corey’s worried something happened to him. Can you please call him or even go over to his house?”
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I scoff. “This has to be some kind of joke.”
“Sash, I’m so sorry for asking, but Corey is really concerned.”
“Fine, I’ll go to his house,” I say reluctantly. I know where he lives. He’s had plenty of parties at his house over the years, and the address is well-known. “I’m sure he’s passed out under a pile of random women, but if I can manage to peel them off, I’ll tell him to go to his game.”
“Thank you, Sash. You are the best friend anyone could ask for.”
“You better remember this when I need a favor in return,” I threaten before ending the call.
Fifteen minutes later, I pull up outside of his house. I had taken the time to brush my teeth, not that he deserves it, but I’m not an animal. As I step out of my car, butterflies swirl and flutter in my stomach, a sign of my nerves at the thought of showing up unannounced at Michael’s house.
My mind races with thoughts of what kind of debauchery might await me inside. With a deep breath, I turn off the engine, silencing New Order’s music blaring through my speakers and adding to the chaos in my head.
The air is still and heavy with anticipation as I approach the front door, preparing myself for whatever lies ahead. As soon as I approach the house, I can hear raised voices. The front door is ajar, rattling with a loud boom as I place my fingers on the weathered wood.
“FUCK YOU! YOU PIECE OF SHIT! HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO HER?”
The sound of Michael’s shaky voice echoes through the room, choked with sobs. With a sense of urgency, I push open the door and step inside. The scene in front of me is chaotic—Michael on one side of the room, another man on the other. They are squared off, chests heaving as they glare at each other.
The house is in shambles—beer cans, empty alcohol bottles, cigarette butts, and food wrappers litter every surface. A lamp lies sideways on the ground, its bulb shattered beneath it. The coffee table is broken in several places, resembling kindling more than furniture. Neither man has noticed my arrival.
I turn to face Michael, his usually handsome face now bloodied and bruised as he stands with his hands clenched in fists. With a trembling voice, I call out to Michael, searching for any shred of recognition in his eyes.
“Michael, Look at me.”
But all I see is a hard, unyielding determination that makes my heart sink. Every inch of his body is coiled like a spring, ready to lash out at any moment.
“What’s going on?” I ask tentatively, trying to keep the panic from seeping into my voice. His response is filled with a coldness that is foreign and unsettling.
“You need to leave, Sascha,” he says, his words cutting through me like shards of ice.
“I’m not leaving without you, Michael. Come with me,” I plead, desperate for him to snap out of whatever trance he’s in. But it’s useless—his mind seems clouded by something dark and dangerous.
“Yeah, Mikey,” taunts the man across the room as he spits out blood onto the carpet, reveling in the chaos that surrounds him. His pupils are blown, and it’s obvious he’s on some rough shit. “Listen to your whore. Unless you wanna stay and party with us, baby,” he leers at me maliciously.
Before I can register what’s happening, Michael launches himself at the doucheface with a primal roar. It’s a flurry of frenzied fists and violent shouts as they grapple on the floor, each determined to emerge victorious. My heart races as the fight unfolds before me—Michael’s fury knows no bounds as he mercilessly pummels his fists into the other guy’s face and body.
“Don’t you ever talk to her again,” he growls through gritted teeth, his face contorted with rage. “I will fucking end you.”
The guy is unconscious at this point, a bloody snot bubble being blown out of his nostril as he breathes.
“Stop!” I yell.
And just like that, it’s over—Michael stands triumphant over the beaten man, his fists still clenched and ready for more if needed. As relieved as I am to see him safe and in control once again, a part of me is a little scared of the sheer violence and intensity he just displayed.
“Michael!” I scream. “Look at me!”
His slow movements catch my attention as he turns to look at me. His hands are cut and bleeding, hanging limply at his sides. I can see the pain and exhaustion etched on his face. Without thinking, I move toward him, drawn by some instinct to help him in any way I can. Wherever he is right now, he’s not present.
My hands reach out and cradle his face, feeling the warmth of his skin against mine. His chest rises and falls rapidly as our eyes meet. In a low voice, I try to comfort him. “Hey,” I whisper softly, “it’s okay. Let’s just go.”
I watch as the reality of the situation slowly dawns on him. His gaze flickers around at the destruction surrounding us.
“Do you need to grab anything?”
He shakes his head, his voice barely above a whisper. “No,” he says. “I want to leave.” The air is filled with pain and sadness. It breaks my heart to see him like this, but I know that we need to get out of here before it gets worse.
I gently interlace my fingers with his and guide him out of the house, a slight breeze carrying the smell of alcohol and confusion. As we make our way to my car, I realize I don’t have a destination in mind. “We should take you to the hospital,” I suggest, concerned for his well-being.
His response is immediate and resolute. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “Take me to the game.”
“But you’re in no condition to play,” I state firmly.
“I know,” he admits with a sigh. “But the trainers can check on me, and I can still support my teammates.”
My worry only grows stronger as I consider the risks. “But what about the hospital—“
He cuts me off. His tone is serious and determined. “No hospital, Sascha,” he insists. “I don’t have insurance and can’t afford it.”
Nodding in understanding, I turn right toward Donnelley Ice Center, hoping he will be okay until we figure out a better solution.
“What about the guy you fought? Will he call the cops?”
“My brother,” he scoffs bitterly. “He won’t do a damn thing. Unless he wants the cops to find his stash of drugs.”
His brother? Drugs? The pieces of Michael’s life start to come together in my mind, painting a darker picture than I had imagined. We pull into the parking lot and immediately spot Ivy, her blonde hair standing out against the dull backdrop. She says something to her family and then starts to make her way toward us.
As we get closer, I notice Michael’s unsteady gait and move closer to him, offering my arm for support. He leans on me heavily as we walk toward the entrance.
“Well, I found him. And he’s still breathing,” I tell Ivy with a slight hint of relief in my voice.
She stops in her tracks and takes in Michael’s appearance. His face is marred with bruises, blood dripping from a cut on his lip. His clothes are stained with dirt and sweat, giving off a musty smell.
“He doesn’t look too good,” she comments with concern etched on her face. Her gaze shifts between me and Michael, silently asking for an explanation for his current state.
“Thanks, Ivy. I appreciate that,” Taz retorts with a hint of sarcasm in his voice.
“What happened?” she asks, genuine concern etched on her face.
“I’m not entirely sure. But he’s refusing to go to the doctor,” I explain.
“Can you take him to the locker room and have the trainers check him out?” she suggests, her brows furrowing with worry.
“That’s the plan,” I reply, my mind racing with potential injuries and outcomes. “If you get Corey’s attention, signal him that Taz is fine, and we’ll deal with everything after, okay?”
As we approach the locker room, a burly trainer from the Mavericks emerges and spots us. His eyes widen in shock as he takes in Michael’s battered appearance. “What the hell happened?” he demands.
Michael tries to crack a joke, but his voice comes out hoarse and strained. Sitting on the training table, he winces as the trainer assesses his injuries. Michael is slumped over, barely able to lift his head. The adrenaline that fueled him earlier has now drained away, leaving him exhausted and in pain. His normally bright cyan eyes are bloodshot, and the right one is turning an ominous shade of purple. Dried blood cakes his split lip as he struggles to catch his breath.
Suddenly, Corey bursts through the door with a loud exclamation of shock and anger. “What the fuck happened?” he bellows as he takes in the scene before him.
I raise a calming hand, trying to halt the rising tension. The last thing we need is more yelling and chaos right now.
“We don’t have time to discuss this,” Michael’s voice is strained but determined. “You need to focus on the game and win. Your mom’s in the stands. Your girl is here. You can do this without me.”
Corey speaks up, concern etched on his face as he turns to me. “Will you stay with him?”
I nod, not wanting to be involved but knowing Michael needs help. I would never turn my back on someone in need. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” I assure them both.
As the rest of the team filters in, the coach barks orders, reminding them of the ultimate goal—victory. “Alright, boys, let’s play like champions. Taz is here, and he’s not dead,” the coach looks at Michael with a fierce glare, “at least not yet.”
“Taz, I’ll catch you after the game,” Corey calls out to him with a grin before grabbing his stick and exiting the locker room. The sound of skates on ice echoes through the hallway as he makes his way out.
The trainer tells us that Michael likely has bruised ribs, a concussion, and several contusions. Neither he nor Michael are too concerned, though. It’s just another day in the life of hockey players. After quickly dressing the wounds and giving Michael some advice for recovery, the trainer sends him on his way.
He’s moving a bit better by the time we leave, thanks to some ice and Tylenol. I start the car and make the sharp turn to head home, which is in the opposite direction of Michael’s house.
“Where are we going?” he asks curiously, still dazed by his injuries.
“To my house,” I reply with a smirk. “You can’t go back home. A crazy maniac lives there.”
“Yeah,” Michael chuckles weakly in agreement. “Brian sucks.”
“I was talking about you,” I say with a wide smile. His face is lined with exhaustion and pain, but his eyes still twinkle mischievously. He chuckles at my words but winces in discomfort.
“Seriously, Michael,” I continue, concern lacing my voice. “You need a safe place to stay. My parents will know what to do.”
Surprisingly, he doesn’t argue with me and instead gives a tired nod. It’s clear he must really need a place to rest.
As we walk through the door of my house, I immediately call out for my mom. She appears from the kitchen, wiping her hands on an apron and pausing when she sees us. Her eyes widen as she takes in the sight of Michael, and she rushes over to him.
“Oh my goodness!” she exclaims, gently touching his shoulder. “Sit down.”
“Mom, this is Michael Tazman. He’s a friend from school,” I say before correcting myself. “That’s not true. He was a friend in kindergarten. Now he’s more of an annoyance.”
“Thanks, Sash,” he says, with a wink of his swollen left eye, causing a small smile to break across my lips.
“Michael,” my mom says. “Of course, I remember you.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bell,” he says.
“So here’s the deal-io, Mama. Michael’s brother is a giant douche-faced druggie, and he can’t go home.”
My mom’s gaze sweeps from me to Michael; her expression etched with concern. She hesitates before asking, “Is your father expecting you home?”
A shadow passes over Michael’s face, casting a veil of hurt and sadness.
“No,” he responds. “He’s never home. And even if he were, he wouldn’t care.”
My mom’s brow furrows with worry as she presses on, “How old are you, Michael?”
“I’m eighteen,” he answers, his voice filled with hesitation.
“Well, then it’s settled. You’ve reached adulthood, and he has no say in the matter anyway. You are more than welcome to stay with us.”
“I don’t want to be an imposition,” he says, his words laced with uncertainty.
“That’s nonsense,” she replies confidently. “You will stay with us.”
“Until you get better,” I add hopefully.
“As long as you want,” Mom corrects me with a warm smile, her eyes sparkling with kindness and understanding.
“Well, not forever,” I say in a panic, my voice rising slightly. “It’s not like he’s going to live here, right?”
My mom smiles knowingly and nods her head. “Sure, he can. We have the room, Sascha,” she reassures me with a warm smile. “Michael can stay as long as he wants. I insist.”
Before I can protest further, my mom gives me a pointed look, and I know it’s not worth arguing. She turns to Michael, who is standing awkwardly by the doorway, and welcomes him with open arms.
“Go and get Michael a glass of water, Sascha,” my mom says, breaking me out of my thoughts. “I’ll make up the guest room.”
As I grab a glass of water for my mortal enemy, I think about how differently my Saturday plans have turned out. Instead of a quiet day filled with music and art, I’m now waiting on Michael, who is my new roommate. What in the actual fuck is this life?