I scrub my hands over my face, trying to erase the image of the coffin, the flowers, Emma’s still face.
Fuck this. I reach for the paper bag and draw a whiskey bottle out. I unscrew the lid, tip the bottle and swallow.
A hiss leaves my throat as liquid heat slides down my throat, coating my insides. Pushing away the cold. I upend the bottle, gulping the whiskey down.
My vision blurs, and I wipe a hand over my eyes. Better. Yeah, fuzziness is good. Everything inside me, the razor-sharp edge of every thought and feeling, begins to dull, so I drink some more.
I can do this. Stay here, wait until Dakota or Ash or Erin or whoever calls or comes back here. Just need to hold on to sanity a little bit longer.
Someone will come. Someone will call. I know I’ve been walking around like a loaded gun for the past few weeks, snapping at everyone or avoiding them.
Shit. Dakota will come. She will.
I drink more, the warmth of the alcohol spreading in my stomach. The room tilts, and I fall back on the sofa, staring at the ceiling. It spins in lazy circles. I need to… Fuck, I don’t know anymore.
Need to fit into this fucking new world order.
My eyes fall on a pair of scissors on the table. I grab them, test the edge. Yeah, they’ll do nicely. I lift them, see my wild eyes reflected in the shiny metal. Hands shaking, I get to work, cutting through my Mohawk. It’s like cutting through cardboard. Like cutting through my childhood, through my past, through all I am.
Bad idea.
The scissors clatter to the floor, and I run my hands over the chopped tufts. My head feels too light—but the heavy feeling in my chest is only getting worse. Grabbing the bottle, I chug down half of it in one go.
Bile rises in my throat, and I swallow hard. The room spins. I’m not sure what I’m doing here.
I need to call Dakota. Where’s my cell?
Turns out it’s lying by my side on the sofa. A symbol is flashing on the screen. It’s a tiny receiver. You have a voice message.
This is funny, and I snort. Who leaves voice messages nowadays?
Bad news, the voice in my head whispers. More bad news. Don’t listen to it. Drink some more.
I take another swig from the bottle and another. The room is still spinning, and my cell is still blinking. My fingers move of their own accord, tapping on the cell screen and opening the message. Swallowing hard, I bring the phone to my ear.
This message was received yesterday morning, a robotic voice informs me, and then it plays.
“Hello?” A man’s voice I don’t recognize. “Dakota, you said to call here. The hospital gave the final diagnosis…” The line breaks with static. I frown. “…her results came in. I’m afraid the cancer is back. It’s not looking good. They…” The line breaks again. “…come by…”
The line goes dead.
The cell drops from my fingers and smashes to the floor, pieces skittering across the room. I stare at the far wall, not seeing anything. Ugly words are ringing inside my head. Final diagnosis. Cancer is back.
She’s dying. Of cancer. Like Emma.
No. No fucking way. Dakota would’ve told me. I would’ve noticed if she was sick.
Only with Emma I didn’t know until she was hospitalized.
The room spins faster. My stomach roils, and it all comes back up. Bending over the armrest, I lose my—dinner? Something I don’t remember eating—on the floor.
I wipe my mouth on the back of my hand and lean back. My body feels like a block of ice. I clench my hands, but I don’t really feel them. The light dims.
Shit. Dakota.
I’m losing it, sinking so fast I can’t grab hold of anything. This is it, I think. This is where I lose everything. My breath catches in my throat. If I break down now, I don’t know if anyone can put me back together.
Dakota doesn’t deserve this. She can’t… She can’t die.