Toxic

by Rachel Van Dyken

  Gorgeous… forbidden. Those two words came to mind. Long chestnut hair with blonde streaks fell around her face in waves, her large blue eyes almost looked purple, and that tan skin.

  I hated to admit it but she was like a hotter version of Miley Cyrus, you know, before she went all blonde and baller.

  “Shit.” I hit Wes’s name and waited.

  It rang and then I got his voicemail.

  “I’m coming by.” That’s all I said. I hoped he was there and just not answering his phone. He was an RA at Lisa’s dorm and usually hung around as much as possible, considering his fiancée and love of his life was my cousin’s roommate. Lucky me, I was surrounded with all-American happy, and all I wanted to do was get high and prove I was nothing like them.

  I started my bike and made my way across campus. By the time I pulled up, I’d made a list of hundreds of different things I’d rather be doing — proactive things like calling my out-of-this-world expensive lawyer and getting his ass on my dad so that nothing happened.

  But, instead, of doing any of those things, I paused. I was doing that a lot lately, hesitating when I knew I should be taking action. I’d done it with Kiersten, Wes’s girlfriend. I’d wanted so badly to be that guy for her. The one who brought flowers and wiped her tears, and when it came time to actually put any of that into action, my hesitation said it all. She was meant for something bigger, because in the end, I’d always let people down. I could be her friend. I could be Wes’s friend. Hell, I could even been a good cousin to Lisa, but I’d never end up with anyone. My soul mate? I’d already met her.

  And it didn’t matter. Nothing did.

  I turned off my bike as my phone rang in my hands.

  “Hey, Martha.” I bit down on my lip. I didn’t need this, not now.

  “Parker, I’m glad we could—”

  “It’s Gabe.”

  “Right,” she said rapidly. “Sorry, it’s just… she only calls you Parker so I tend to forget.”

  “Martha, I’m kind of busy, what’s this about?” I shifted my weight to the other foot and waited.

  “She’s asking for you.”

  I laughed bitterly. “She always asks for me. They all do.”

  “Yes, I know, but, Parker — I mean Gabe…” I could hear the sadness in her voice. “It’s bad this time. Could you stop by? Maybe bring your guitar or something? I know she loves that. Or color, she’s been going through that weird coloring phase. The entire place has!” Her excitement should have rubbed off, but instead, all I wanted to do was get high. I wanted an escape.

  But I didn’t deserve one. Maybe that was the problem.

  “Yeah.” I wiped my face with my hands. “I can do that. Give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Thanks… Gabe.”

  “Anytime, Martha. Take care.”

  I hung up and stared at the dorm. Wes was a freaking miracle worker, no joke, like a walking male version of Mother Theresa.

  Shit. I may as well be the devil.

  Chapter Six

  He tasted like cinnamon — too bad I was allergic to cinnamon. Good thing I didn’t go into anaphylactic shock from the kiss. That would have been awkward. —Saylor

  Saylor

  I wasn’t really sure how long I stared at the piano before I was able to function enough to play. Each time I tried to lift my hands, all I could picture were his. They’d had music notes on each knuckle.

  Why I’d remember such a ridiculous detail, I had no idea. But it seemed weird that a guy who looked like that was capable of the music that had come from the practice room. What had come out of his mouth when the door was closed was completely the opposite of what he looked like and how he’d acted when I was eavesdropping.

  Maybe it was my fault. After all, I’d been salivating over the music like a dog in heat. It was my weakness, my downfall. I hadn’t heard those songs in a long time, they pulled at something deep within me, some untouched part that I longed to unleash but was too afraid to tap into. Funny, because it had nothing to do with the actual song, but the way it was played — with such passion and abandonment that I was immediately jealous.

  It was why my music major wasn’t performance, as the asshat had assumed. It was music theory. I wanted to be a professor. I wanted safe. Safe meant I’d have a job, that I’d be able to pay off my ridiculous student loans, and that I wouldn’t fail.

  Safe was all I had. Because when you took chances you got hurt and I was so done being hurt. Most people went to college hoping for an adventure — I’d be happy with a diploma and a mug with my alma mater on it. Nothing was more important to me than not having to worry.

  Typical for someone who’s been taking care of her family for the past few years. I was all my little brother and my mom had. They were counting on me to make something of myself so that I could, in turn, provide for them.

  And it wasn’t even like they were asking a lot. They just wanted me to graduate and find a job that brought in decent enough money so we wouldn’t have to live paycheck to paycheck.

  I shook my head. Practice. Mom. Eric. Those were my motivators, not some tattooed, spoiled bad boy who liked attacking innocent girls in music rooms.

  Nice. I was a romance novel waiting to happen.

  I closed my eyes and placed my hands on the smooth keys and so began my two hour practice session.

  Chapter Seven

  I kept a picture of us in my pillowcase like an absolute nutjob. She’d had it in her pocket the day of the accident. I wanted it as close to my face as possible when I slept every night. Because every night I went to bed hoping it was all a bad dream, and every morning I woke up to the terrifying reality that it was not. You’d think I would stop hoping…but I’d never stop. I’d never stop praying for God to take it away. —Gabe H.

  Gabe

  I pulled out onto 405 South and took the exit toward the other side of Seattle. How many times had I driven this same route over the years? Through rain, snow, sleet, hail. Shit, I was like a dog with a trail in his owner’s back yard. Predictable to the extreme. I was either at school or at the Home. I increased the speed, hoping that it would decrease the sharp pain in my chest. I was messing everything up just by existing, it was too tempting. To end everything. End everyone’s misery.

  Almost as tempting as dropping the whole happy-go-lucky bullshit act and actually pouring my feelings out to anyone. Hell, I’d even pour them out to Lisa at this point, but she was too close to the situation. It would just make her cry, and I hated seeing that girl cry. Correction, I hated seeing any girl cry. The last time Kiersten cried I wanted to do a freaking heart transplant so she wouldn’t hurt anymore. I would have gladly taken her pain. After all, what was one more broken heart when yours was in a constant state of being shattered?

  The moist air bit into my leather jacket as I got closer to the water. I slowed down once I pulled up to the Pacific Northwest Group Home and put my bike in its usual spot.

  The building had once been an old hospital but had been converted into a group home with an adjoining retirement home in the late fifties. Later it was remodeled to include a state of the art treatment center for people with brain injuries. Every time I parked in that spot, the same feelings washed over me. Dread, heartache, confusion, guilt.

  Luckily, the building was a pristine white with exposed wood, making it look more like a set of cabins on the water than what it really was.

  For some reason I was delaying the inevitable. My feet felt like lead as I approached the doors. It had been… different since Wes’s surgery. Or maybe I was different? Whatever it was, I wasn’t dealing with anything well.

  I walked toward the main building — the treatment center — and braced myself for impact. The first steps into the entrance were always the hardest.

  “Gabe!” Martha clutched a clipboard to her chest and let out a sigh of relief. “I know it’s not your normal day but—”

  “It’s fine!” I flashed her a smile when I all I wanted to do was turn around and m
arch back out to my bike and cry. I was here five days a week. You’d think it would be enough. But lately, even being there twenty-four seven wasn’t doing the trick. She was failing. And it was my fault. Martha gave me a sympathetic pat on the hand.

  Aw, pity. Lovely. I cleared my throat and forced a wider smile. “You look great. Have you lost weight?”

  Good call, Gabe. Just hit on the elderly because that’s been known to make everything better.

  “Such a nice gentleman.” She elbowed me in the ribs as I wrapped my left arm around her, pulling her in for a hug. “I still don’t understand why you don’t find a nice young girl and settle down.”

  My entire body tensed.

  Did she still really not know? How in my heart that would be the final nail in the coffin? To settle down and finally — forget.

  “Yeah, well.” I laughed it off. “Most girls my age can’t keep up. I’m into older women. You got any ideas of who I could seduce out of her scrubs?”

  “Oh, you.” She hit me with the clipboard. “I could be your grandmother and you know it.”

  “So you’ll think about it?” I kissed her cheek in good fun.

  “Oh, I never said I didn’t.” She winked. “Now, she’s just in there. The nurses finally calmed her down a bit with a game of checkers.”

  “Let me guess, she’s destroying everyone.”

  “It seems the only way to calm her down is competition.” Martha shrugged and handed me the clipboard. “Just be sure to sign out when you leave.”

  I took the board. “No problem.”

  Nurses and staff shuffled by me, each of them hurrying off in different directions, getting things prepared for the day. Martha went back to the main desk while I made my way through the long hall toward the game room, passing the security team on the way. The two men nodded in my direction — as they should, considering I paid their asses — and opened the door to the room.

  Laughter danced off the walls.

  Her laughter.

  I grinned despite my shitty attitude and the fact that I was sweating. When had I ever been hesitant to visit her? Or any of the patients? I shook it off as the large metal door closed behind me.

  “Gabe!” Old man Henry wheeled himself over to me and held out his hand. “Didn’t know you were gracing us with your presence today!”

  “Count yourself lucky.” I took his hand and reached into my pocket to pull out a piece of taffy. “Shh, don’t tell Martha.”

  “That woman was a drill sergeant in another life.” Henry shook his head, “Last time she caught me with pudding I was on bathroom duty! In my condition!” He pointed at his legs. They were strapped against the chair so he didn’t lose balance and fall out. A farm accident had nearly killed him, but it didn’t keep him from volunteering his time. Once his wife died he decided to move into the retirement home next door — unfortunately, Martha was head nurse for both buildings and had the ear of the cooks, meaning he never got sugar. Poor guy.

  “Hey, Gabe!” Sarah practically tripped over Henry’s chair to jump into my arms. She was my age but because of an accident had memory issues. For some reason, though, she remembered my name. Probably because I was the only constant thing in her life.

  My heart ached a bit as I set her back on her feet and kissed her cheek. “Do a twirl for me, Sarah. Let’s see this dress.”

  She laughed and did a twirl then went to go sit at the far table. Where I knew I was being patiently waited for.

  “Henry.” I saluted him and walked toward the table.

  “Parker.” A muffled voice rose from the table, nearly bringing me to my knees. I told myself to be strong, but it was so damned hard and getting harder. She reminded me of every mistake I’d made, every bad road I’d traveled.

  She looked thinner than when I saw her last week. Her blonde hair was pulled back in a pink scrunchie — her favorite color — and she was wearing her favorite Oregon Ducks sweatshirt.

  Another really bad sign.

  She only wore the sweatshirt on bad days.

  She’d been having bad days for the past two weeks.

  And every time I tried asking the doctors what was going on they’d just shake their heads and say the human condition was a mystery. Her health was failing and they had no freaking clue why. She’d already suffered through two bouts of pneumonia where she needed to be physically restrained so they could calm her down enough to put a tube down her throat to help her breathe.

  The second time she’d screamed my name over and over again. I’d stayed overnight and prayed that God would just take her. Even though it would hurt like hell, I wanted Him to take her.

  Watching her suffer was like going to bed and praying that when you wake up things would be better. I’d been told that all my life, just to sleep on things and they always look better in the morning.

  It didn’t work anymore.

  Because now when I woke up, things always looked worse.

  “Princess?” I knelt down next to her wheelchair and took her hand in mine. She was paralyzed from the neck down, so it was impossible for her to feel the warmth of my skin — but I still held her hand anyway.

  One time I forgot to hold it and she thought I was mad at her. When I asked how she could feel my hand in the first place, she said she couldn’t, but she did still have two eyes. I’d laughed and grabbed her hand, promising to never let go.

  “You haven’t been here, Park.” Her lower lip jutted out as her mouth dropped open a bit. So she was pouting. Fantastic.

  And this was what I was talking about. I’d done my daily duty by showing up for at least a half hour to an hour each day. But it still wasn’t enough. She always forgot, meaning I’d had to start calling at night too. That had begun a month ago, and things still weren’t getting better.

  “I’ve had a really busy few months with classes.” I lied, thinking it was easier to brush it off rather than explain to her that I had in fact been by her side like a freaking leach for the past four years and was slowly suffocating to death. She wouldn’t understand. It would hurt her, and I’d already done that enough.

  “Oh.” Her empty blue eyes seemed to take the information as truth, “Well, since you’re here, can we play a game?” The emptiness disappeared as excitement flashed across her face.

  “Sure.” I sat down next to her and looked at the table. “What are our choices?”

  “Hmm…” Her smile was bright and eager. “How about Guess Who?”

  “Awesome.” I pulled out the game board just as my phone went off.

  Not thinking, I went to answer it, momentarily forgetting how much Princess hated interruptions.

  “No phones, Park! No PHONES!” She wailed shaking her head back and forth. “You promised, PARKER, you promised me! You promised!” Loud sobs escaped her mouth as a few nurses came running.

  Well, shit.

  “I’m so sorry, K, I forgot, I—”

  “That’s not my name!” She yelled. “My name’s Princess!”

  “You’re right,” I sighed, reaching for my guitar and motioning for the nurses to stop running. They’d do more damage than good. “How about I play you a song?”

  She stopped yelling, but her lips quivered. “Play our song, Park. Please?”

  “Of course, Princess. I’ll play our song.”

  I was five seconds away from losing my shit. I strummed a few chords and started singing. Princess giggled and started singing with me.

  She’d once had a beautiful voice. But her voice, just like everything else, had been taken from her. By the very person who promised he would never let anything happen to her.

  My stomach clenched. I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d be able to do it. But I had to try — for her I’d try, because I’d broken every other promise I’d ever made her. I had promised to protect her, to save her — sucks that the one person who promises you life — delivers death.

  Chapter Eight

  I couldn’t get him out of my mind. Which was so stupid if you aske
d me. I dreamt of his stupid music note tattoos and that ridiculous kiss. I needed to get out more or something if I was dreaming of the devil and actually looking forward to falling asleep so I could dream of him again. —Saylor

  Saylor

  It had been two days since my run-in with Blue Eyes, aka Asshat. I was beginning to think he wasn’t real. I mean, he played the piano like a dream but he wasn’t in the music program — at all. Not that I shamelessly searched for any sign of him in all of my classes.

  Or Facebook stalked him.

  Or asked the dean of the department.

  I was curious. That was it.

  Besides, he was never in my building.

  And I was in that building twenty-four seven.

  Great, was I really practicing so hard that I’d started hallucinating?

  I shook my head as I walked down the hall toward the practice room. So what if it was at the exact same time I’d been there a few days past? Was it wrong to feel hopeful that I’d hear that music again? It was my practice time —the only time I could manage to fit it in my schedule!

  That man could be the devil himself — and probably was if his earlier behavior was any indication — and all it would take would be one song and I’d be putty. That’s why musicians were dangerous, they made you forget yourself. The core of who you are can be so easily lost in music. They were our modern day sirens, wielding the power of persuasion with their gift. And the rest of the human population had no choice but to be caught in the trap. It was worse for a fellow musician because they could actually appreciate the raw talent and skill. It was beyond something sounding good — it was about life coming together for a few brief seconds while notes mixed. I shuddered.

  I wondered if anyone had ever taken the time to tell him how amazing he was at the piano. How I’d kill to have that type of talent at my fingertips. My greedy little musician heart wanted to sit in the same practice room as him and just savor the moment.