Tied (All Torn Up 2)

“Yeah?” his deep, groggy voice bellows from the tiny phone speaker.

“Tor…it’s me.” I clear my throat of the burn. “Can I stay at your place for a while?”

“Ty? What the fuck? Do you know what time it is?”

“Around four…maybe. I think. Not sure.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Sorta. Among other things.” Hey, at least I’m an honest junkie.

His exasperated sigh travels through the phone. “Where are you?”

“Up at the lookout smokin’ a few.”

“Tell me you didn’t drive up there.”

“Nope.” I exhale smoke and watch it drift away into the dark. “I took the bike.”

“Seriously, Ty?” His voice grows louder as anger wakes him. “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you out of your fucked-up mind?”

“Skip the lecture, I’ve had enough for one night. Can I just stay at your place for a few days? I’m going through a rough time…”

The sound of sheets rustling sifts through the background. “No. I’m going back to bed. And I’m going to wring your neck next time I see you.”

Click.

“Asshole.” Standing, I snuff out the joint and put the roach in my pocket for later. He could have easily said yes, especially since his band is going on tour and his house is going to be empty. What’s the big deal if I stay there? He can fuck off too, along with everyone else.

I start up my bike and ride into the brisk mountain air. It’s just me, the road, and nature, and maybe that’s the way it’s supposed to be. My body relaxes, my mind eases, and I sink into the numbing, welcoming haze.

It was dark, and there was light.

Flashing, burning.

There was warmth, and there was ice.

Melting, oozing.

I was flying, but I had no wings.

Floating, drifting.

Until there was nothing at all.

And the silence screamed the loudest, crying to be heard.

“Tyler?” My brother’s voice booms through the fog. “Just nod if you can hear me. Stop trying to move.”

Tor is singing Pink Floyd songs. Why?

I nod, not wanting him to sense my confusion. The familiar sterile, bleachy smell and the faint beeping in the background bring me to the slow realization that I’m back in a hospital.

“I convinced your doctor to let me tell you what’s going on, but he’s right outside the door and he’s going to come in after I leave. Are you okay with that?”

I nod again, niggling fear mounting when I realize I can’t move or talk. And my brother is acting weird, talking to me almost like I’m a child.

“You’re going to hate me for a while, Ty. And that’s okay, because I hate you right now too, because I need you, and you’re a mess. I’m gonna make this short and sweet because I can’t be in six places at once.” He coughs into his hand. “You crashed your motorcycle into someone’s house. You went right through their living room wall of floor-to-ceiling windows.”

Fuck.

“No surprise—the doctors found alcohol and drugs in your system, and in your pocket, so I’m having a hard time feeling sorry for you right now.” He slowly shakes his head back and forth, disappointment emanating from him. “I love you, bro, but you did this to yourself. You can only dance with the devil for so long.”

I nod, the weight in my chest growing heavier, like a rhinoceros sitting on me.

“You’re pretty shredded up from the glass. To put it mildly? Your scars now have scars. Everywhere. You’ve got a few broken bones, but you’re lucky to be fucking alive, and you’re damn lucky those people were in bed, or you probably would have killed them while they were sitting in their living room watching TV.”

He avoids my eyes as I stare up at him from the hospital bed, silently begging him to just stop talking. I can’t hear any more of this or bear any more of the suffocating pressure in my chest.

His eyes finally sink into mine, and they’re darker than I’ve ever seen, like something has sucked the color and life from him. “I want you to listen to me, Ty, because I’m not going to have the strength to repeat this. You got that?”

I blink and nod, an icy chill scattering through my veins.

“A shard of glass pierced your neck and, by some miracle, didn’t hit your jugular, but it did damage part of your vocal chords. The doctor said it went in at just the perfect angle.” He steps away and stares out the window, watching the rain fall outside. “You’re going to need surgery, and you’re not going to be able to talk for a while, if ever. I’ll let the doctor explain after I leave. It’s probably best if you don’t try to speak.”

My heart pounds harder, a deep bass of fear and remorse, and when he turns back around, I’m sure the devastation on his face mirrors my own.