The laughter Ever and I heard might’ve been coyotes, but as far as I know, no animals giggle. When I settle again, a small wooden squirrel sits next to me.
I react immediately, without thinking. I send the figurine flying away from me, into the night.
I push my back against a tree, away from the cliff’s edge that slices between the grove and the world.
“Stop it.” I would squeeze my eyes shut if I thought it would make the world go away. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
Near my feet, something moves. I push back more, folding all the way in on myself. And something slithers away.
Laughter.
Liar. Thief. Addict.
It’s so tempting to swallow the pills and let the darkness take me. Embrace oblivion. It’s so tempting to stop running and accept there’s no other way to let the pain end.
That night in January, when I’d asked Carter if he could find a way to help, he said, “Are you sure you need the pills?”
I had the prescription my doctor gave me, but by then, it didn’t feel like enough. The maximum daily dose could barely mask the physical pain, and if I took them all quickly, she would ask questions. Or the pharmacist would.
There were ways to get more pills off the internet, but they were expensive, and I didn’t have a clue if they were legitimate.
Once upon a time, I would’ve meticulously researched options, like I did with everything else. I would’ve tried to figure out how the drug worked and why, and how I could understand it. Like I did with sports. Or with people. At some point, though, that didn’t matter anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the edges of my vision dissolve into flames. While I could mask the physical pain of my knee being torn and twisted, I still felt hurt all the time.
So why not give this a try and see what happened?
“I’m sure,” I told Carter. “I do.” We sat on the bleachers near the lacrosse field, though it was empty and the sky already darkening.
He hesitated.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” I lied, because I didn’t know how to tell him the truth.
We sat there so quietly that a gaggle of maybe five or so middle schoolers didn’t see us. They ran onto the field and chased after one another effortlessly. And right there and then, I hated them for it.
Carter nodded slowly. “I have to figure out a way to get more cash,” he said, “but I can manage it.”
I side-eyed him.
He shrugged. “Don’t ask.”
“I won’t.”
I expected him to relax at that, roll his shoulders back, stretch his legs. He didn’t. He merely stared back over the field. “Look at how young and innocent they are.”
“Sure, Old Man Carter.”
“We were dating in middle school.”
“We were terrible at it,” I comment.
He laughs and shakes his head. “I wish we could’ve been better at it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and he didn’t elaborate. After that day, I never asked about the money, and he never argued that I shouldn’t take the pills, and it was as simple as that.
I wish he would’ve argued more. I wish I would’ve asked. But we were both messed up and messing up, and neither one of us was in a position to tell the other to stop it.
So no, I don’t know what Thief means. I can guess. I could guess, back then. But I didn’t want to know. In the light of all of that he did for me, all that he meant to me, why would I betray his trust? He was a good friend to me, and look where it got him.
Now, in the grove, I take a handful of pills out of my pocket once more and stare at them. They’re so small, and at the same time, they’re everything.
I didn’t used to be like this. “Maddy before the accident” felt stronger. More sure of the world and her place in it. And somehow I lost all of that.
I truly needed the painkillers at first. I wouldn’t have made it through those first weeks without them; the pain was too intense and all-consuming. If the pain had stayed on those levels, I still would’ve needed the pills to do what they are supposed to—kill it.
But no one—not the doctor, not my parents, not my sister, not me—took into account that life as I knew it was ripped apart by the accident. The pills didn’t just kill the physical pain; they killed the emotional pain.
No one noticed.
How could they notice? I’ve grown very adept at lying.
And I know it’s not my fault, not precisely.
Addiction doesn’t work like that. Trauma doesn’t work like that. Depression doesn’t work like that. I know all about how human and neurotypical emotions are supposed to work.
Figure out the details, learn the language, learn the scripts.
The pills are warm to the touch now. If I keep holding on to them, they’ll melt in my hand. Maybe that’s the way to go?
I don’t know how to get out of here alone.
Nothing would’ve been different, if Carter had said no that night in January. Except we wouldn’t have grown so close.
I don’t blame him for helping me; I could never.
I blame him for not being here. Because I really need a hand to hold.
Because I really want him to tell me it will all be okay. And I really want to tell him that I can survive this, that I can find a way.
The pills in my hand stick together. By this point, I usually swallow them. Often, I realize I don’t have any water near, and I can’t be bothered to get some and just swallow them dry. It’s easy to grow skilled at swallowing pills.
I ball my fist around them.
The laughter has died away, but it doesn’t make me feel better.
I want my best friend to be here.
But he’s not. So I speak the words into the night instead. “Hey, C, remember that time at WyvernCon when we spotted those Mask of Shadows cosplayers, and we both immediately crushed on them?”
The words come out unbidden, soft, necessary.
“You on Sal and me on Maud. Neither of us knew if they would be into hanging out, and we were both worried they’d hate us for asking. We decided our best course of action was to admire them from afar, until Ever called us a bunch of bisexual disasters—which may or may not have been the case, but c’mon, it was rich coming from them. You walked up and ask Maud out for me, and the only thing I could do was ask Sal out for you, and we ended up on the most awkward double date in history. Later that night you said—”
I gulp in a fresh breath of air, a little light-headed.
“You said it’s easier to do things that are scary when you’re doing them for friends. It’s easier to fight manticores when you’re fighting them together. It’s easier to run into a dungeon when you know there’s someone waiting on the other side. And I know we were always far better at friends, but that was the night I understood what you meant when you said you wished we’d been better at dating.”
I should never have picked charisma as my dump stat, he’d said, holding me and laughing so hard at how awkward the night was.
At least we picked our adventuring companions well.
I’ve started to squeeze the pills so hard, it’s a miracle they haven’t been crushed.
“I want you to be there at the other side, C. I need you to be here, so we’re together, at the end of all things. And I don’t know how to accept that you’re not. Even if I make it down this mountain, I don’t know how to accept that you won’t be there, waiting for me. To make terrible decisions with me. To find a way for us both to heal. I don’t know how to get out of here without you.”
I sniff, and with my free hand, I aggressively wipe at my eyes. “If I somehow manage to walk away from this nightmare of a night, what do I do, then? I don’t want to fail anymore. I don’t want to be afraid anymore. I want the world to make sense again, or as much sense as it ever did.
I want to feel like myself again, and I want you to be a part of that.”
I take the fist with the pills and pound against my leg, harder and harder, until it’s sure to leave bruises, because it’s the only way to keep myself focused—and present.
It’s so much easier to be brave in-game than it is to be brave out here.
And Carter doesn’t reply. He can’t. He never will again. Same for Liva.
This pain is so much. It’s enough to make me want to stop. Give up. I don’t know how to face more loss.
But it’s also exactly why I don’t want to. Because both Liva and Carter would be disappointed in me. Liva would scoff and tell me to be better than everyone who ever laughed at me, who ever told me I couldn’t do something. Even if that includes myself. And Carter would hold my hand and storm into the fray for me—and with me.
I just need to take the first step, because it’s all I can do right now.
One step.
Just one.
I unfurl my fist and stare at the pills. They stick together and to the palm of my hand and look so deeply, incredibly tempting.
I bite my tongue so hard, I taste blood.
Then I tip my hand over and let the pills scatter on the moss under my feet.
One step.
Just one.
I turn my back on the brightly lit city below, and all the emptiness it now holds, the parts of us it will miss, and I start back toward the cabin.
The only way through is together.
Twenty-Five
Ever
Cracks are starting to show. In the glass. In Finn. He is trembling, and it seems the only thing that keeps him standing is sheer willpower.
I hate that he doesn’t leave, that he doesn’t find his way to safety, but at the same time, I get it. I would’ve done the same for any of them. Especially for him.
Still, I can’t help but look over his shoulder, because it’s the only thing I can do. With every rustle of the wind, I expect to see something, and that only makes it harder. The terror itself might kill me.
When a shadow appears from the tree line, I yell and pound the glass.
Finn startles, and I point, though I don’t know how much he can see. “Behind you!”
He immediately spins around, his back blocking my view.
I can’t see what’s happening. There’s a rapid shift in his body language.
Shock.
Fear.
Then, relief. Maddy.
He steps away, and Maddy climbs onto the porch. She holds up her hands like she’s afraid he might charge her if she doesn’t, and briefly, I think that isn’t such a bad idea. Then she says something and gestures to the crutch, and Finn steps aside, relieved.
She picks up the crutch and with renewed force starts slamming the glass, until both she is shaking and sweating, though the summer night is cool.
The cracks dance over the window like stars.
Then, miraculously, it shatters with a deafening roar.
Without pause, I tear off pieces of my tunic and wrap them around my hands, pushing sharp shards out. I throw Finn’s second crutch out.
“Ever.” Finn reaches in, and his voice shakes as much as his hands. He doesn’t seem to mind that the glass tears at him, but instead, reaches for me and I reach for him. He helps me through the window and then somehow, someway, we’re in each other’s arms. We’re both scratched up and bleeding. And it feels so good to hold him, to breathe in the familiar scent, to feel his hair and his presence.
He holds me as though he can’t be sure I’m really here.
I could cling to Finn and never ever let go.
“I’m sorry,” Maddy starts, before we pull her in too, and she tenses but she doesn’t disengage. The three of us hold one another and form our own shield against the world.
Of course, we can hardly keep it out forever.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
Her answer is a simple, muffled, “No.”
“We have to keep moving. We have to get off this mountain.” Finn disentangles and says what we’re all thinking.
“Do you think that’ll be enough to end it?” Maddy asks.
He shrugs. “Maybe. Probably not.”
I grow cold again all over. “It has to be someone we know,” I say, detailing the recording with Elle’s voice. “I wouldn’t have gone back for any other reason than the idea that someone might still be here. So everything about this…it’s too personal. Everything is designed to hurt us.”
Maddy’s eyes go to the ground. “You don’t believe it’s either of us, do you?”
I stare at Maddy before I answer her question. I could have. I did. But what use is it to angle for other people’s secrets when I’ve never shared my own? Their actions have proven they couldn’t have been a part of it. “You wouldn’t be here if it were you, now would you?”
She seems to shrink in on herself. “But who? I didn’t think we’d have enemies.”
“I didn’t think so either, but maybe we do.”
“Who, then?” Finn demands.
I open my mouth and close it again. Zac was nothing more than an educated guess. Aside from those of us here—and no longer here—he’s the only one who knows our game well enough. He’s the only one who might be angry enough about how things ended. “Let’s move. We can figure it out once we’re safe, or—”
“The moment they strike again,” Finn supplies.
“Well, yeah. Are you okay to walk down the mountain?”
He winces. “It doesn’t seem like I have much choice, do I?”
“Outside of the boulders, the road should be clear enough for both of us,” Maddy says.
Finn nods. He licks his lips and glances at me. “Stay close to me?”
If it were up to me, I’d hold hands with both of them the entire way down, but I realize that’s less than practical. “Always. We’re here together. We’ll go into the woods, and out of the woods, and down the mountain, and be home before sunrise.”
He smiles at that.
* * *
The fresh air clears my head a little, makes it easier to think again, though the fear and anger don’t wear off. It’s brighter outside than it was in the cabin; the moon and stars give the world a dark blue hue.
Maddy leads us to the path because she knows the way best, and she has a memory for these things. She’d found a box of matches in the kitchen, and lights them occasionally to illuminate our path. It’s not much, but it’s more than nothing.
Still, we’re miles away from civilization, and I can’t help but feel we are well and truly adventurers now, in ways I’d never wanted to know. In games, I can narrate tension and loneliness, but I don’t want to feel it. I can recreate grief, but I don’t want to feel it weigh me down. Now it does. With every step away, I’m motivated by fear and pulled back by loyalty. Elle is waiting for me, and I need to get to her. But I don’t want to leave Carter and Liva behind. That doesn’t feel right. It doesn’t feel real.
I might as well be in an alternate place, an alternate universe, an alternate story.
Maddy leads the way. We’re circling around the cabin to reorient ourselves, because the pine grove is thick and there is no identifiable path here, when Maddy hisses.
“Stop.”
She takes a step back and simultaneously lights a match. A thin wire peeks out from the undergrowth, at ankle height. “Want me to trip it?” she mutters.
“Please.”
We all take a step back, and Maddy hooks her bread knife under the trip wire and brings it up. The wire breaks with an audible snap.
There’s a beat.
A branch swings across the path like a morning star.
None of us quite know what to say. “I’m glad you saw that, Mad,” I offer.
She shrugs. “Let’s kee
p moving.”
So we do, our eyes on the ground and our arms around one another.
There are no perception checks here, only luck and skill.
“I’ve think I’ve found the path,” Finn whispers. He crouches down and rakes his fingers through the dirt and gravel. The trees seem to bend over him and watch while he tries to orient himself. There are so many shadows between the leaves and branches, there could very well be a dozen eyes watching us.
Maddy steps forward, matches in her hand, and starts walking in the direction Finn indicated. She moves slowly, checking for any more trip wires. When the path doesn’t stop after another few steps, she gives us a thumbs-up. This will lead us to the parking spot we could no longer use, and from there, to the road.
I look over my shoulder every three steps, and so does everyone else. All three of us pretend not to notice how on edge we are. But Maddy’s question keeps haunting me, bouncing around in the back of my mind.
Do I think going down the mountain will be enough to end it?
Frankly, if whoever targeted them in the cabin didn’t get us there, we haven’t seen the end of it yet. I don’t plan on voicing that thought to the other two just yet, of course. I’m not that cruel; we all need a moment to pretend we’re safe.
But Liva and Carter are both gone.
I was supposed to remain stuck in that cabin—to disappear too.
Maddy and Finn are left.
We’re not done yet.
Still, we pass the imaginary boundary between Gonfalon and the real world, the cabin ground and the rest of the mountain, and something about that feels important. Like there is a world out there that still matters and is still waiting for us, even if it’s a lifetime away.
We’ll find a way home. We have miles to go yet, but it’s a start.
“One step in front of the other,” Finn whispers, probably as much to himself as to any of us. His crutches are a bit wonky after the punishment they got punching through glass. But they keep him upright enough.
“We’ll be home soon,” Maddy adds. “We’ll sleep in our own beds tomorrow. My sister is waiting for me, and there’s no one I would love to hate more right now. Your computer is there, Finn, with all the endless codes you’ve written and all the endless worlds you’ve built. Ever, your stories. It’s all only a mountain away. We’ve walked this path before. We can do it again.” By the end of her impromptu speech, her words are slurring with worry and exhaustion setting in, but I appreciate what she tried to do.
Even If We Break Page 16
