Chapter Eleven
I backed out of our driveway, heading out of town for the next two weeks.
I needed to take some time off work because my wife seems to be very injury-prone.
Apparently, I need to keep her in a fucking bubble.
But I guess that’s what you get when you marry someone who barely had a mother and a drunk father.
She has no fucking common sense. But I think I can thank her for being so fucking naive.
I reach into the console and pull out the little orange bottle with a blue lid.
I should feel guilty, sure, but really I don’t.
I don't give a shit. She’s been convinced since that night I came home that I’ve been that doting husband taking care of her because that’s what I’m supposed to do.
But no, I’m just doing that as a distraction.
She doesn’t need those pills. I do, sometimes our past secrets are meant to stay in the past. Truth be told, at first she really did help me.
A week before I met Juniper, I overdosed on purpose.
Life was miserable. Mine and Ricky's business was going to shit, and life felt like it was trapping me in. I wanted to give up. After meeting Juniper, I picked up on a few things. She’s pretty easy to manipulate.
Not very smart. Easy prey. I decided to borrow some money from the guys I used to buy from.
Anytime I’d ask, they’d give me whatever I asked for; in a way, I guess this was their way of washing their cash.
With missing work, I’m now behind on paying them back.
I’ve been under so much pressure. Juni’s pills dull it for a little while.
That’s why I need them, and she doesn’t. She’ll be fine.
My haze is conflicting with my better judgment.
I step closer to the wall than we are supposed to.
”REECE, you need to step back!” One of the extras we hired for today yells my name.
It takes a second longer than it should to register that it’s mine.
I send the pry bar into the stone; my momentum is off, but just slightly.
I rear back and send the bar in again. A small groan leaves the foundation of the wall like a warning.
But in my current state, it doesn’t fully register.
It only took a fraction of a second. Where my two strikes landed, the stone began to crack.
Realizing my distance, I attempt to step back, but other debris catches my boot.
Halting me. Something comes down and hits my shoulder, sending me down to the ground.
The way I landed, my lower back took all the force.
My older injury, screaming. The pain is unbearable, like my spine is in half.
White takes over my vision. My breath is being forced out of my lungs by the stone wall, now collapsed on top of me.
For a second, the pain doesn’t come. All I can feel is the weight and the cold from the stone.
Then my foggy mind catches up to the realization.
White-hot pain shoots right to my lower back, traveling down my legs.
I try to move from under the stone wall, but nothing happens.
Trying to command my limbs to move. Nothing.
Panic erupts from what I can tell in my sense of shock.
My arms and legs are not broken. But the unbearable pain in my back tells me something is wrong.
”FUCK, Ricky, help me! I can’t fucking move!
” Everyone rushes to me. Voices yelling overlap.
One of the other guys told me to stay still.
Ricky keeps saying fuck repeatedly. One of the other guys is a volunteer EMT and keeps asking me questions.
My brain is too fogged to respond. I can bend my toes.
Thank fuck, I’m not paralyzed. Something positive.
I attempt to sit up. Radiating pain spreads, dots entering my vision.
My back feels like it's exploding from the inside. My thoughts start to settle. I’m not sore; I’m fucked up.
I’m not going to be walking away from this easily.
I guess those oxys couldn’t save me. They just dulled my pain… and now I’m beyond fucked.
“Reece,” Ricky says. “Did you take anything today?”
What the fuck? The question irritates me more than the pain. I turn my head as much as I can, glare up at him. “What the fuck are you implying?”
“Any meds. Anything not prescribed. Alcohol…” the medic kid asks.
Offended. “No. Jesus Christ. What? Because I am a recovered addict, you automatically think I’m on something?
” The lies I’ve been feeding people for years- I've practiced. Automatic. People always want a fucking excuse when something goes wrong; something to blame that isn’t the job, the equipment, or their own incompetence.
Someone else cuts in. “You seem a little slow, man.”
That pisses me off. Glaring. “How would you be if you were under a fucking stone wall, Jeremy?” I snap. They all exchange looks. I know that fucking look. Doubt. Judgment. My jaw tightens with anger. “I have an old recurring back injury,” I add, like I’m doing them a favor.
The medic kneels beside me. Typing on his tablet while pretending to believe my bullshit. “I’m going to ask you again. Did you take anything today?” There it is.
I exhale hard through my nose, like they’re the problem.
“Ibuprofen. This morning. Same as always.” Another lie.
Smaller. Safer. He hums noncommittally, checking my pupils.
I stare straight up, make myself focus, fight the heavy, floaty pull behind my eyes.
I know how this goes. I’ve watched enough guys get hauled off sites and drug-tested to know what not to give away.
They lift me onto the stretcher. The movement sends fire through my lower back, and I hiss despite myself. My hands curl into fists, nails biting into my palms.
I hold his gaze. Let my expression harden.
Controlled. Annoyed. Innocent. “I told you,” I say.
“I don’t do that shit anymore.” He doesn’t argue.
But he doesn’t believe me either. As they load me into the ambulance, the siren stays silent for now.
The doors slam shut, sealing me in with the smell of antiseptic and my own sweat.
The ride is rough, every bump sending my spine on fire.
I stare at the ceiling and think about how fast everything turned.
How one bad moment became everyone else’s problem.
This wasn’t my fault. It was the wall. The timing.
The site. My wife’s painkillers. Anyone in my position would’ve gone down.
That’s the story I stick to as the ambulance starts moving, because if I don’t control it now, someone else will. And now I need to call my fucking wife.