But if she isn’t in the kitchen, who is?
I tiptoe to the bedroom door and peer around the corner. I see shadows on the living room floor of a person standing in the kitchen. The refrigerator door opens, and I hear a familiar mumble.
“You’re right, it’s the only way to fix this. I have to end it all before I ruin everything,” he whispers frantically. “I know, I know.”
I run my fingers through my hair and steel myself for a struggle. It’s always a struggle these days. I fight for patience, and he fights for understanding. I wish I had more to give him, but it’s so difficult.
“Lucas, what are you—” As I round the corner into the kitchen, my words vanish and time stops as my eyes fall upon Lucas stabbing himself in the arm with a needle. My blood-curdling scream fills the house, every crack and dent of it, and thankfully diverts Lucas’s attention for a few life-saving seconds.
I lurch forward, and his eyes widen in fear. I slap the needle from his arm, and it falls to the floor with a deafening clatter. We are both silent, as if waiting to see who will make the first move. My eyes dart to the counter behind him, and, in an instant, everything makes sense to me.
“Did you push the plunger at all?” I whisper.
“W-what?” His eyes keep following movement behind me, and I turn my head to see.
Nothing.
“Did you push any of the insulin into your arm?” My words are cold and purposeful.
He looks away and shakes his head. I allow a moment of relief to wash over me. I let the silence settle in, staring at him, waiting for his eyes. Finally, after a lifetime, he meets my gaze. My hand slaps his cheek with such force, his head jerks to the side before coming back to look at me again. A sob racks through my body as I swing again, but he catches my wrist this time.
“You son of a bitch!” I scream as I shove him back into the counter and beat my fists on his sagging chest. “How can you do this to me? How dare you?”
My legs crumble underneath me, and I fall on my knees, rage coursing through my veins. Lucas comes to me, tries to wrap his arms around me, but I resist. I will not allow him to console me.
I grab the syringe off the floor and depress the plunger, shooting the medicine onto the floor. I scramble to my feet and throw open a kitchen drawer and pull out the first thing that will work—a meat mallet. I slam the mallet on the counter three times, smashing each vial of insulin into crumbled pieces of glass and metal. I release my fingers, and the mallet clambers onto the counter. Hands spread on the counter and head lowered, I breathe. I try to erase the near memory of another person I love lying helpless on the floor.
“I can’t live this way, Celia,” he whispers into the silence. “It’s for the best. I’m only hurting you this way.”
I whip around and charge him, my finger digging into his chest. “For the best? Leaving me all alone, killing yourself on the day of my grandmother’s funeral is what is best for me? For you? You and your family are all I have left in this world, and you’re trying to leave me?”
His eyes lift through lowered lashes. “I’m nothing but a burden to you. They tell me how you look at me when my back is turned. The repulsion in your eyes, the hate written all over your face, and I can’t even blame you. I’m disgusted with myself, too. I’m tired of this life.”
His lips twist in utter repulsion. He rakes his hands through his hair, and his head falls between his knees in defeat.
“I love you,” I say simply. “More than you can know, I love you. I’m not disgusted, I promise you that. It hurts me to see you this way. That’s all.”
I wait for some type of acknowledgment from him—a sign that my words penetrated his thoughts. I hope for his promise in return. What I wouldn’t give to hear him say he loves me, too. In these past few months, I’ve come to doubt his feelings. I’m unsure if he’s capable of love for me at this point. I think the fog may be too thick to navigate, and that hurts more than anything else.
“Let me help you. Please, Lucas, let me help you. If you would just—” His head is shaking before I finish the sentence. I grab his shoulders, fully prepared to beg. “Yes, Lucas! There is help out there—doctors, medications, therapy. You can’t give up. You haven’t even really tried.”
My head falls to his chest, and his hand grips my neck. “Remember your promise, Celia.”
“I’ll only keep it if you can swear to me that you will never try to hurt yourself again.” My voice is a soft whisper, but when the grip on my neck tightens, I know he’s heard me. “Promise me you will never try anything like this again, Lucas, or you leave me no choice.”
He releases a resigned sigh. I lift my head so I can see his admission. “Okay, Celia. I promise I won’t hurt myself again.”
“Okay.”
As I walk Lucas back to the safety of his room, I’m overwhelmed by an impending sense of dread. His volatile mood swings as of late make me question his ability to keep good on his promise. I may have smashed his weapon of choice tonight, but there are no shortages of methods to choose from. I’m drowning, and the surface is nowhere in sight.
I see the light from Audrey’s bedroom seeping through the bottom of the door. I tap lightly and open it a crack.
“I think I’ll take you up on the sleepover after all. I’d like to stay with you for a while, if you don’t mind.”
Audrey screeches excitedly and jumps up off the floor to wrap me in a hug. “I’m so glad, Celia. I knew you didn’t want to be in that house all by yourself.”
“You’re right,” I agree, hoping I sound convincing. “I’m gonna hang out with Lucas for a few minutes, then I’ll be back.” Hopefully she’ll lose track of time, and I’ll be able to stay with Lucas until he falls asleep.
“Below My Feet” by Mumford & Sons
Present Day
I EYE THE trash build up on the side of the road and the shady characters with less-than-honorable intentions milling around as Celia drives us to her patient’s house. With every mile she drives, we are moving farther into the wrong side of town. At least her old Buick doesn’t garner us any unwanted attention.
“Um, Celia?”
“Hmmmm?” she answers, seemingly oblivious to the change in our surroundings.
“I don’t give a shit who you’re visiting, you shouldn’t be on this side of town by yourself. Ever.”
She gives me a lighthearted laugh and rolls her eyes. “My patient’s mental illness keeps him from holding down a job for any length of time. He has to make do with government disability. That doesn’t exactly buy a downtown penthouse apartment. He does the best he can … they all do.”
“Hey, I’m not knocking the dude. I’m saying, when you need to come here, you call me first, yeah?”
I keep my eyes trained on her until I see a little nod, telling me she gets where I’m coming from. She turns into Sanders Trailer Park and slows down to maneuver around the monstrous potholes. Old Man Sanders, the guy who runs this place, gives the term slumlord its name. The conditions of his trailers are deplorable, and I’ve heard he treats his tenants like dirt.
Celia comes to a stop in front of a dilapidated camper and turns off the ignition. I’d bet my ass it’s a FEMA cast-off with toxic formaldehyde levels. That’s how Old Man Sanders rolls … sorry sack of shit.
She shifts her body to face me and places a hand on my arm. “Now, I haven’t spoken with Mr. Craig directly. He doesn’t have a phone for me to reach him. I’ve only spoken with his mother, who called me because she’s worried about him. I think it’s best if you stay outside while I speak with him. I don’t want him to be frightened.”