Saving Quinton, Page 8

  I take slow breath after slow breath, forcing myself not to count them or my heartbeats or how many steps it's taking me to get to the door. How many stars are in the sky or how many lights there are on a casino just across the street.

  Finally Tristan stops in front of one of the doors and looks back at the parking lot, like he's checking on something. I'm proud of myself for not running to numbers to calm me down, but when he opens the door my pride crashes and shatters like the pile of glass on the floor just inside the door.

  "Welcome to our palace," Tristan jokes as he shoves the door open and the doorknob bangs against the wall behind it, causing the really bony guy slumped on the couch to let out a grunt as he turns over. I think I recognize the intricate tattoos on his arms, most in black, but some in crimson and indigo, but I'm having a hard time placing him.

  As I enter, stepping over the threshold and out of the light of the porch, the first thing I notice is the smell. It stinks. Not just like weed or cigarette smoke, but like garbage, rotting food, dirt, grime, sweaty people, and there's this really musty smell, like a humidifier is on nearby, yet I can't see one anywhere. It's all mixed together and it stings at my nostrils. I wonder if this is how the trailer smelled or if I was just oblivious to it--if I was oblivious to a lot of things.

  On the floor are three 1970s lamps with beads hanging off the shades, one of which is tipped over but still on. There's a large blanket with a tiger on it hanging over the window and the ceiling fan is on, but it's missing one of the blades and it makes this thumping sound as it moves. There's no carpet on the floor, and there are holes in the walls, water stains on the ceiling, and crack pipes on the floor. It reminds me so much of the trailer they used to live in, only much shittier (and that's putting it nicely). I'm both repulsed by it and drawn to what's hidden beneath the surface, the crevices, the pipes on the floor. My senses are heightened because I know that just one or two hits and I'd probably feel twenty times more subdued at the moment, instead of so anxious I feel like I'm going to combust. At least if it were weed, but Delilah told me on the phone that they were into meth now.

  "So this is our place," Tristan says, switching the bag of ice to his other hand as he weaves between the two old sofas, then he gestures at the person on one of them. "And that's Dylan...you remember Dylan, right?"

  I slowly nod, trying not to look so stunned, but I can't help it. Yeah, Dylan was always a little scraggly-looking, but he looks like a skeleton now, his bald head showing every bump and divot in his skull and his arms as scrawny as mine. And Tristan looks worse under the dim light of the living room, his skin pallid and his hair really greasy and thinning. There's a red mark on his forehead from the cigarette and he has a few scabs on his cheeks and neck. Only two things run through my mind at the moment. One, what the hell is Quinton going to look like? And two, what the hell would I look like now if I hadn't walked away from this life?

  "And that's the kitchen." He nods at a ratty curtain draped over a clothesline.

  I don't say anything because there's nothing to say and I follow him across the living room, noting that the pungent smell in the air is amplified as I get closer to the curtain. It makes me wonder what the hell's behind it, but also lucky that I don't have to see, since it's probably going to push at my anxiety even more.

  As Tristan starts down a narrow hallway, I peer over my shoulder at Lea. She's horrified, her enlarged eyes looking around at the glass bongs, the roach clips, the ashtrays, and a syringe on the floor. When her gaze meets mine, I can tell she's realizing the extent of what I went through last summer. And although I don't think I ever made it this far, I still was hovering over the fall that could lead to this, and this could have become my life--I could have ended here.

  "So try not to freak out," Tristan tells me as he halts in front a shut door near the end of the hallway.

  My body goes rigid. "Why would I freak out...God, Tristan, how bad is he?"

  "Personally, I think he looks worse than he really is." He grips the doorknob, pressing his other hand to his chest, the one holding the bag of ice, and the bag knocks against his stomach. "But I'm not sure if you'll agree."

  My muscles ravel into even more knots as he opens the door, then my breath hitches in my throat at what's on the other side of it. A room about the size of a closet with clothes and coins all over the linoleum floor, along with a mirror, razor, and small plastic bag. And just beside the doorway, there's a lumpy mattress on the floor, and Quinton's lying on it.

  Quinton.

  His arm hangs lifelessly over the side of the mattress and his eyes are shut, his body motionless, and the leaky ceiling is dripping filthy water on him. And his face...the bruises...the swelling...the cuts...if I couldn't see his scarred chest rising and falling, I'd think he was dead.

  "Oh my God." I cover my mouth with my hand, tears stinging at my eyes, my gut twisting in knots.

  He looks dead. Just like Landon. Only there's no rope, just bruises and cuts and a room full of the darkness that's consumed his life.

  "Relax." Tristan sets the bag of ice down on the floor just inside the doorway. "I already told you he looks worse than he is."

  "No, he looks as bad as he is," I argue in a harsh tone, my heart plunging into my stomach as I push my way into the room and stop when I get to the mattress. "What happened to him?"

  "I told you, he got beat up," Tristan replies, standing in the doorway right in front of Lea.

  "And why didn't you take him to a hospital?" Lea asks in a clipped tone, giving Tristan a hard look that makes him lean back a little.

  "Um, because hospitals draw attention, especially when you've got all kinds of shit running in your blood," Tristan says with zero sympathy and I realize I don't like this Tristan very much. The old Tristan I knew was a lot nicer, but this one seems like an asshole. "And the last thing we need is more attention drawn to us."

  Lea glares at him as she crosses her arms. "Wow, what a friend you are."

  "I'm not his friend," Tristan points out. "I'm his cousin."

  "And that changes things because?" Lea asks with irritation.

  "What the fuck is your deal?" Tristan retorts, stepping toward her.

  They start arguing but I barely hear them, their voices quickly fading into the background as I focus on Quinton. I want to help him--it's what I came here to do. But this...I don't even know what to do with this. He's hurt, bleeding, unconscious. I don't know how long he's been like this, what he did to end up like this, what kind of drugs he has in his system, or if he'll act like Tristan when he wakes up.

  I need to do something.

  I carefully kneel on the mattress and it sinks beneath my weight. He's changed since I last saw him, his jaw scruffy, but more defined, since he's lost weight. His hair's grown out a little and he looks shaggy and rough. He's shirtless and the muscles that once defined his stomach and chest are gone, his lean arms now lanky. The only things that are really the same are the indistinct scar over his top lip, the large scar on his chest, and the tattoos on his arm: Lexi, Ryder, and No One. Before, I wondered what they meant, but now I'm pretty sure I know. Lexi was his girlfriend, Ryder was his cousin and probably Tristan's sister, and No One is Quinton. How can he think of himself as no one? How can he think he doesn't matter? God, it's like I'm back with Landon again and I'm looking at him withering inside himself.

  "Nothing I say or do matters in this world, Nova," he says to me as he leans back on his hands, staring at a tree in front of us. "When I'm gone, the world will keep moving."

  "That's not true," I say, stunned by his declaration. Sure, he gets depressed sometimes, but this is dark and heavy and hurts me to hear. "I won't be able to keep moving."

  "Yes, you will," he says, sitting up and cupping my cheek with his hand as we sit at the bottom of the hill in his backyard. The sun gleams down on us and there's not really a point to what we're doing other than to be with each other, which is fine with me.

  "No I won't," I argue. "If you die,
I'll die right along with you."

  He smiles sadly and shakes his head. "No you won't, you'll see."

  "No, I won't see." I scoot away from his touch, getting frustrated. "Because you're not leaving before me," I say. "Promise me you won't. Promise me that we'll grow old together and that I'll go first."

  He starts to laugh like I'm amusing, but it's stiff and his smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Nova, you know I can't promise that when I have no control over life and death."

  "I don't care," I say, knowing I'm being irrational, but I need to hear him say it. "Just tell me that you'll let me go first. Please."

  He sighs tiredly and then scoots across the grass, getting close to me and placing his hand back on my cheek. "All right, I promise. You can go first."

  I can tell he doesn't mean it and I want to cry, but I don't. I just keep silent, stewing in my own thoughts, fearing to press him--fearing I'll make him mad at me. Fearing the truth. Fearing that whatever's going on his head, I won't be able to handle it or help.

  I blink from the memory and focus on Quinton. "My poor Quinton," I utter under my breath, like he belongs to me, even though he doesn't. But at that moment I wish he did and I could just pick him up and take him out of here. Clean up his cuts and feed him because he looks like he hasn't eaten in days. I become hyper-aware of just how much I care for him and want to make him better--help him. And this time I'm not going to silently watch him slip away.

  Hesitantly I reach for him, but then pull back fearing I'll hurt him, and instead lean over him with my hands to my sides, clenched into fists. "Quinton," I say softly. "Can you hear me?"

  He doesn't respond, breathing in and out, his chest rising and sinking. I dare to touch his cheek, gently cup it in my hand, feel how cold his skin is. "Quinton, please wake up...I'm so sorry...for not seeing...for not being able to see..." I struggle for words through the abundance of emotions surfacing. Regret. Worry. Fear. Remorse. Pain. God, I feel his pain, hot beneath my skin, flooding my heart, and I wish I could pull it out of him. "Please, please open your eyes," I choke.

  My only response is the softness of his breathing. I check his pulse with my other hand and it's there, murmuring against my skin. I try to tell myself there's still hope, that I can get out of this, but looking around...looking at him, taking in the silence that's almost as quiet as death...I'm not so sure anymore. And it hurts, almost as much as if I'd lost him, just like I lost Landon.

  Quinton

  I'm pretty sure I'm dreaming. Or maybe I'm dead. I'm hoping for the latter, but I don't think it's the correct assumption because this feels different from the first time I died. If I'm dreaming, it's a beautiful dream, one where I'm with Nova and we're happy. I'm surprised I'm seeing myself with her and normally I'd stop my thoughts from going there, but I'm not awake enough to care. Plus, I feel really good, better than I have in a while. Everything feels light. Breathless. Hazy and weightless. My memories of my past are fading. I can no longer feel the blood on my hands or the weight of guilt on my shoulders. Something wonderful is taking over. I'm not in the darkness, locked within myself. I've been swept up by light and I feel like I could do anything at the moment as I lie on my back, gazing up at the sky. Nova hovers over me, cupping my cheek, and her skin is so damn warm and she smells amazing. And her eyes...bright blue with specks of green, her skin dotted with freckles, and her full lips that look so delicious I want to taste them...and I'm going to, because nothing matters at the moment. It's not real, which makes it easier to take what I want--admit what I want.

  I lean up, not even thinking about what I'm doing, and press my lips to hers. It hurts my mouth but the pain is worth it--it's worth everything just to taste her again. I could do it forever, and I want to, but when I slip my tongue deep inside her mouth, she pulls away, her eyes widening and swarming with confusion. I open my mouth to tell her to come back to me, because I want her--need to kiss her again--but then her lips start moving and the haze from my brain gradually starts to lift.

  "Quinton, can you hear me?" she asks, her voice soft, distant. Or maybe I'm the one who's distant.

  "I..." It hurts to talk, my throat too dry, and the brightness of the sun is stinging at my eyes.

  "Are you okay?" she says, and the sunlight dims as the blue sky changes into my shitty bedroom ceiling, cracked and stained with water. That stupid drip comes into focus, haunting me again.

  I suddenly realize that I'm in my room. Awake. And Nova's here. With me. My thoughts start racing as I try to recollect what happened. I was planning on those guys beating me to death. Why didn't that happen? Because it was too easy? Do I deserve not to be let off so easy--do I deserve worse than death? But if that's true then why's Nova here?

  "What are you doing here?" It's painful to talk, but I force the words to leave my mouth. "Or am I dreaming?"

  She repositions her hand on my cheek, but doesn't pull away, the startled look in her eyes diminishing. "You're not dreaming...you were unconscious but...are you okay?" She seems nervous and it reminds me of how innocent and good she is, and how she shouldn't be here in the crack house that I call home.

  "Why are you here?" I ask, my voice feeble as I try to sit up, but my arms aren't working and I fall right back down on the mattress.

  "I came here to see you," she replies, absent-mindedly touching her lips, and I wonder if I really kissed her or if I was imagining it.

  She stares at me with her fingers on her lips and it's uncomfortable because she's really looking at me. I've been so used to people looking through me, as if I were a ghost, seeing the drugs, the person that I am now, the worthlessness all over me, instead of who I used to be. I've forgotten what it's like to be really looked at and for a split second I enjoy it. Then she looks away and I feel like I'm dying, my brain registering the pain in my legs, arms, chest--everywhere. And I'm crashing. Badly. My hands start to shake, my heart rate picking up as soon as I realize this.

  "Go put some ice in a plastic bag," she says, snapping her fingers at someone.

  I hear a mutter and then Tristan steps into my view. He glances down at me and the haziness in his eyes lets me know he's high on something, but I'm glad he's at least here and it doesn't look like he's been beaten up. "Dude, you look like shit," he tells me with a dopey-ass grin.

  "I feel like shit," I mutter, managing to get my hand up to my face to rub my eyes. "You look like you got away."

  "I did, and you should have run with me, you dumbass...I thought you were for a while until I realized I was alone." Tristan chuckles under his breath. "Wait until you see yourself in a mirror."

  His amusement seems to piss Nova off and she gets to her feet, tugging the bottoms of her shorts down, fury burning in her eyes. "Go get a fucking bag to put the ice in," she says, not yelling, but her tone is cold, abrupt, harsh, and she sort of shoves him. This isn't the Nova I remember at all and she kind of scares me.

  She seems to scare Tristan, too, who surrenders with his hands in front of him and backs toward the doorway. "Fine. Jesus, Nova. You don't have to get crazy about it."

  "You haven't even begun to see me get crazy," she snaps, pointing at the door. "Now go get a damn bag."

  After Tristan leaves, she turns to the doorway and says, "What am I going to do?"

  I can't see who she's talking to and it makes me wonder who the hell is in here. Delilah? I doubt it, since I don't think she'd be asking Delilah that question.

  "I don't know," someone replies. I still can't see who it is, but I can tell the voice belongs to a female and I hate how excited I get over the fact that Nova's not here with a guy.

  Suddenly a girl with black hair and big blue eyes steps in. "He looks..." She assesses me, then looks at Nova. "He looks like he needs to go to a hospital."

  "No hospitals," I croak. "I don't have the cash to pay for that." And I don't deserve to heal so easily. I should suffer for getting up and running away from my death.

  Nova stares down at me with reluctance. "Quinton, I really think you need
to go to a hospital." She kneels back down on the mattress, sweeping her long brown hair to the side as she leans over me. Her fingers gently enfold my wrist and, moving slowly, she bends my arm so I can get a good view of my hand. It's twice the size it normally is and my skin is purple and blue. Even where her fingers are, the skin is swollen and raw, and it seems like her touch should hurt, but all I can feel is heat--her heat. God, I've missed her heat. I've spent the last year wrapped up in coldness, feeling the numbness of drugs and sex with random women and now she's here and I feel like I'm burning up.

  "It's just a bruise," I say, not looking at my hand, but at her. I want to hold her, hug her, kiss her, touch her, but I also want her to go away. Stay. Leave. Right. Wrong. Lexi. Nova. Guilt.

  Guilt.

  Guilt.

  Guilt.

  It was all your fault.

  As my past strikes me in the face, I jerk my hand away from her, not carefully, and this time I feel the pain, but I don't react to it. Instead I finally struggle to sit up on the mattress. As soon as I'm upright, sharp pains stab at my side, making it hard to breathe. I gasp, clutching at my side as I hunch over.

  "What's wrong?" Nova asks with genuine concern, and it only makes it harder to breathe.

  "Nova, just go," I grunt, trying to focus on my breathing, but it's like I'm being punched over and over again...my thoughts drift back to earlier today...

  Donny strikes me with the tire iron, over and over again. I fall to the ground. I'm not even sure why I fall, other than that I'm tired of standing. I'm ready to give up and I do as he slams the heavy metal bar into shoulder, my rib cage, kicking me, punching me, beating me repeatedly.

  I can see it in his eyes that he wants to kill me and I welcome it as I lie in the gravel, the rocks piercing my skin, the sky blue above me.

  "Go ahead." I choke on the blood gushing up in my mouth as I stare up at him. "Kill me."