"Santiago."
Something shatters around me, and I hurl myself back, crashing into what feels like a brick wall. I'm swinging without a thought, punching the air, fighting off invisible demons when Mercedes's voice drags me from my delirium.
"Jesus, Santi! Wake up! Open your eyes."
I freeze, forcing my eyes open, blinking several times as my chest heaves with ragged breaths, and I take in my surroundings. I'm slumped back into my office chair, paint dust from the wall behind me covering my shirt. There’s a bottle of scotch broken on the floor, and my knuckles are bloodied from hitting something. The wall. The bottle. I can't even be sure at this point.
Mercedes is standing in the doorway, surveying the scene with undisguised frustration. "What the hell is wrong with you?" she snaps.
Her lip is trembling, emotion choking her voice, and for one terrible moment, I find myself questioning if I actually hurt her.
"You didn't come near me," I say hoarsely.
"Of course, I didn't," she hisses. "I'm not an idiot. I know what you're like. But this is getting out of hand, Santi. You haven't had nightmares this bad in months."
I scrub a hand over my face, trying to shake off the memories. "I haven't been sleeping enough. That's all."
"No, you haven't," she barks. "Because you're a goddamned mess. You're drinking night and day. Slumped over this desk every waking moment. Storming around The Manor like a zombie. You need to snap out of it."
"Watch how you speak to me," I warn her.
"No." She crosses her arms defiantly. "I'm not going to pacify this behavior because I love you too much to let you backslide. I know things suck right now. Okay, they really fucking suck. But you have to get it together. For all of us. I can't go through this again with you, Santi. I can't. I won't survive it."
Tears stream down her face, and it paralyzes me. I've never seen my sister so emotional or so fragile. And I'm horrified because I don't know how to fix this. I don't know how to comfort her. I've never learned. Neither of us has ever known comfort. We've known rules, and order, and expectations. Emotions don't have a place in a De La Rosa heart. My father ensured it when he beat them out of us at every opportunity. But Mercedes is shattering before me, and I don't know how to fix it.
"I..." Words fail me as I stand and look over the mess that is my office. "Don't cry. Please."
She blinks up at me, wiping away her tears when she hears the uncharacteristic strain in my voice.
"Santi." She hurls herself at me, her entire body quaking as she wraps her arms around my stiff frame and hugs me tightly. "Please don't do this anymore. I can't stand to watch you break."
"I'll never break," I assure her, patting her back awkwardly in an effort at consolation.
"Stop drinking so much," she pleads. “This isn’t like you, and it scares me to see you going back to that darkness.”
"I won’t go back."
"Do you promise?" She glances up at me, and I force a nod even though I'm not in the habit of complying with terrorists. Right now, my sister is an emotional terrorist, deploying the one weapon she knows I'm unequipped for. Her tears.
She squeezes me tighter and pulls herself together while I stand there, arms dangling at my sides. After a few more uncomfortable moments, she releases me, schooling her features and drawing in a deep breath. I feel another speech coming, and I'm not wrong.
"I need to speak with you about Ivy," she says.
I walk around my desk and kneel to pick up the shattered bottle, disposing of the pieces in the trash. "What about her?"
"She's got bruises all over her," she whispers.
I pause to look up at her, puzzled by the torment in her tone. I haven't seen Ivy's most recent bruises, but I am not surprised by this revelation, considering her condition.
"Is that from Judge?" she chokes out. "Or you?"
"Why do you care?" I ask.
She doesn't answer right away. She's chewing her lip, considering her words carefully. "I just... I was just wondering."
"She has a vestibular disorder," I tell her, though I'm not sure why. It's not her business. "She does most of it to herself."
I'm not excusing myself as a monster. If I were truly responsible, I would take the credit, but my sister doesn't look either relieved or gratified by this revelation.
"Don't you think you should do something about it?" she asks.
I slice my thumb on a piece of glass and blood drips onto the floor as I cock my head, studying her.
"Again, I have to ask why you care."
"I don't," she clips out. "Just... this whole thing is stupid, and I'm tired of it. Either kill her and be done with it, or just admit that you aren't going to. There's no point in torturing her and dragging it out."