Released (Caged 3)

“Okay,” Tria said quietly. “Let’s try.”

I was never one to beg, but when there’s nothing left to lose, everything’s left to gain.

Chapter 8—Make the Apology

“So, you really hit her?”

Tria’s shy smile and the tinge of red in her cheeks confirmed it.

The guest bedroom had been a home away from home when I was a kid and felt even better with Tria lying next to me in the queen-size bed. I kept one arm around her back so I could hold her close to me, and the other just kept touching parts of her like I was trying to make sure she was real. I touched her cheek, her hair, her shoulder, her hand and fingers, and then her stomach.

I always came back to her stomach, and the act produced a conglomerate of horribly conflicting feelings of remorse, terror, comfort, and joy.

Tria shifted in my arms and then looked back at my face as she reached up to run her fingertips over the black and blue mark under my left eye—the one roughly shaped like Yolanda’s left hook.

“I’m so sorry all of that happened,” Tria whispered as tears formed in her eyes again.

I reached up and wiped them away.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t kick me out of the apartment, and I’m the one who spent the rent money on H. Yolanda always beat me up when I relapsed, so that was expected.”

I licked my lips and looked away from her for a moment.

“I deserved it.”

“Why did you do it?” Tria asked. She played with the hairs on the back of my head.

“Do what?” I asked with a humorless laugh. “I mean, I’ve done a lot of stupid shit lately.”

“Go back to heroin.”

“Oh.” I tensed and tried to think of what I should say.

“I need to understand,” she said.

I really had no idea how to explain it, but I didn’t think I was going to get away with just saying I was a fuck up. Besides, Tria deserved a little more effort.

“It just…hurt too much,” I whispered. “I couldn’t shut it out—I couldn’t stop thinking about you and…and what you said. I couldn’t stop thinking about you being…on the floor…with blood. And there was nothing I could do because you were gone. I couldn’t keep you safe.”

“But why heroin?”

“It makes me stop thinking,” I said. “When you shoot up, it’s like everything else just melts, and you stop feeling anything. It makes all the pain go away.”

I turned my head so I was looking down at her.

“It hurt too much,” I said. “Knowing you were out there, and there was nothing I could do to keep you safe. Knowing the same thing could happen to you that…that…”—I swallowed and forced the rest out—“…happened to Aimee. I didn’t get to her in time. If I had been with her earlier, she might have been okay.”

I took a long breath through my nose and blew it out between pursed lips.

“I couldn’t take it,” I admitted. “It was too much, and I think I was convinced you were going to die, and I might not even know about it because I didn’t know where you were. You could have dropped out of school or gone back to Maine, for all I knew.”

I tucked my head against her shoulder.

“It was all too overwhelming, and I hurt too much. I couldn’t stand feeling like that.”

“Did you feel like that again?” Tria asked. “I mean, after you got out of the hospital the second time? After I…after we talked, and I left?”

“Yes,” I said.