“I know that,” Griffin says patiently, “but shaking her and yelling at her isn’t helping.”
Malachi scowls at him, and looks ready to throw a punch.
“Go call Timothy,” Griffin says. “Make sure he’s okay. That will help Echo more right now.”
I do want to know Timothy is safe and sane, somewhere deep down I want that. Too far away to really concentrate on at the moment. Thinking about Timothy too hard will make me think about everything else I’m carefully keeping behind the floodgates at the moment. All it will take is just one little crack.
Griffin gives Malachi a less than gentle shove, but it gets him moving. He only has to look at his dad before Morton steps out. Zara and Holden hesitate, but neither one seems willing to go up against Griffin when he motions for them to step out as well. His easy dominance over them all hints at something I was supposed to ask about, question Griffin. It’s back there with everything else, all the stuff that can’t be felt right now. That I won’t feel right now.
When Griffin turns back to Kyran, I feel a light pressure form around my waist. Looking down, I’m surprised to see Kyran’s arm cinched around me. His grip is tight, but I barely feel it. I barely feel anything. Good. I don’t want to feel anything. It’s a relief. Finally a break from all this madness. I think maybe I’ll stay like this for a while. For as long as I can. Numb is better than facing reality.
“I need you to trust me, Kyran.”
“Trust you to what?” he demands. “What can you do that I can’t?”
I’m not sure why, but I think Kyran is wrong about that. What am I supposed to ask Griffin? It’s important, I think, but I can’t reach those memories. Not without going through Timothy and his father and…I shake those thoughts away. Griffin can wait.
“Kyran, please. She just needs some time alone to process everything. Go check on Malachi. He’s not okay either. He’s the one you can help right now.”
Malachi? I wonder what Griffin means by that. Concern attempts to bubble up for my friend, for my protector, for the only other person in this apartment who understands what just happened. Cracks form in the wall keeping everything back and I shut down my concern for Malachi. He’s stronger than me. He’ll be fine. Kyran will help him. He can’t help me.
There’s more talking, but I tune it out. Suddenly, Kyran gets up. The second he’s not touching me anymore, my body goes cold. I panic. Griffin was wrong. He was wrong. My breathing escalates and memories of the icy blast try to force their way in. Before I can completely melt down, Griffin takes his place. His arms wrap around my trembling body and he pulls me into his lap. The cold retreats. The numbness doesn't.
He doesn’t make me talk. He doesn’t ask a single question. Instead, he strokes my hair in silence and holds me until I stop shaking. Only then do I notice how dark it is. I went to meet Timothy in the middle of the afternoon. The lamp on my nightstand illuminates the room, but outside the window is pitch black. That is both confusing and comforting. I remember walking forever, then I squash that memory before I can think about where we walked to.
“What time is it?” I ask.
Griffin glances down at me, his expression calm but still worried. “Just after eleven. You guys were gone for quite a while.”
I nod and lay my head against his chest again.
“Do you want to talk about it?”
I start shaking again and squeeze my eyes shut. He doesn’t ask again, but he reaches for the lamp and I grab his arm. He looks down at me, confused. “I don’t want you to stay.”
“Echo…”
“Please,” I beg.
“You shouldn’t be left alone right now.”
“I want to be alone. I deserve to be alone.”
“Why?”
I turn away from him and refuse to answer. Flashes of Timothy sucking up souls, Malachi’s shield, Mr. Bridger walking away from us, all threaten to claw their way to the surface. Griffin is dulling the pain. I don’t want the memories, but I need to feel the pain. It’s cowardly of me to hide from it. Everyone else did something in there. Everyone but me. I stood there. Didn’t stop Mr. Bridger. Didn’t help Malachi. Didn’t save a single soul. I was useless. I stood by and watched him die.
Pulling out of Griffin’s embrace, I wrap my arms around my body and tuck my knees up to my stomach. “Please, leave me alone.” He shakes his head and I get angry. “Go away, Griffin! You’re making it worse, don’t you get that?”
“How am I making it worse?” he demands.
I don’t know. It doesn’t make sense. But he is. He is. “Don’t make me feel better,” I snap. “Don’t make me feel less. That’s not fair!”
“Not fair?” He stares at me in confusion. “I’m trying to help you.”
“Well, stop it! I don’t want your help, okay? I don’t want anyone’s help. I want to face this…by…myself. All of it. Feel all the responsibility and shame and guilt. Without you. Without anyone else.”
“You don’t have to,” he argues.
I point a shaking finger at him, furious now, not caring that I’m being irrational. “You told me I had to! You said I have to be strong. Quit shutting down. Quit relying on other people. You said that! So go away and let me. Quit babysitting me. You’re not my brother, Griffin. You’re not responsible for me. Go! Away!”
Slowly, Griffin stands. He gaze is steady on me. I know he thinks I’m being ridiculous, but I don’t give a damn. I just want him gone. Whatever the hell he’s doing to me, I want it to stop. He can’t stop me from facing the fact that I am completely and utterly useless in this war against the Devourers. I couldn’t even save one man when I had the chance. I let a little boy watch his father die because I couldn’t do a damn thing to help him.
“All right,” Griffin says. “I’ll go.”
He watches me the whole way to the bedroom door. I want to throw something at him. I’m so sick of him treating me like a baby. I scowl at him, hating the concern in his eyes. It can’t be real. No one who truly understands me and the things I’ve done would feel that way. He shuts the door behind him and I’m finally alone.
Suddenly, I feel like I’m suffocating. Everything crushes in on me, emotions I can’t deal with, memories that are screaming to be released, fear of having to go back to that place, panic that everyone will know I’m not what they think I am. It all threatens to boil over and I realize I was wrong. There are voices outside my door. Griffin’s. Morton’s. Talking about me, I’m sure. Debating my sanity, probably.
I need Griffin back. Desperately. I refuse to call for him. So I listen as I fight for control of my breathing and shaking. His words are a jumbled mess. What they’re saying is lost. I can only listen for their voices, hear them quiet then vanish all together as they walk away. Pain blossoms in the center of my chest. I don’t know where it’s coming from. My fingers are numb and my lips feel weird. Panic assaults me as I picture them all standing in the hall, whispering, wondering, blaming. Malachi has surely told them all by now what happened, how I did nothing and let Mr. Bridger die.
I have to get out of here.
Fumbling with my trembling, clenched fingers, I scoop my keys into my numb hands. Getting off the bed is harder than usual. My body isn’t working properly. I know I’m having a panic attack in some corner of my mind, but it’s not as important as escaping. Gripping the doorknob, I pause. They’ll try to stop me. I don’t know how I’ll get past them. I have to get away, though. I have to.
Carefully pulling the door open, I peek out in the hall. Empty. I step through. Check the living room. Empty. Voices reach me from the kitchen. Maybe if they’re all talking, I can just slip out. It sounds ridiculous, even to my scrambled mind, but I start moving before the thought finishes. Within seconds I’m at the front door. Turn the handle. Quietly. Slip through. Gently pull it closed. Down the stairs. Where is my car? I can’t remember.
Any kind of memory is dangerous right now. I can’t think about coming home from class or where I parked, so I
shuffle down the aisle in search of it. Each step heightens my fears that someone will come after me, stop me. I move faster, panic setting in as I begin to wonder if it’s disappeared. It has to be here. It has to be here.
The sound of a shoe moving against the asphalt sends me spinning, gasping as a dark figure stares at me as it leans against a car. My car. My arms fall to my side. I can feel myself shutting down, giving in. There’s nothing I can do anyway. Nothing I should do, really. I deserve this.
“Where are you going?”
Griffin’s voice sends a shot of life through me. Anger follows closely as I realize he’s trying to interfere and stop me again. Then confusion. How did he know? How did he get down here so fast? “I don’t know,” I hear myself say. My brain is still trying to process half a dozen panic-fueled questions, but more words tumble out of my mouth. “Away from here. From all of it.”
“There’s nowhere you can go to escape it,” Griffin says.
Anger overpowers everything else. “You think I don’t know that?” I scream at him.
“I know you know that. So why are you running?”
“Because I don’t know what else to do,” I sob. Tears streak down my face, the first sign of emotion aside from my yelling. “I just want it to all be over.”
Griffin reaches out a hand. “Come with me.”
I slap it away. “Leave me alone.”
“I won’t. I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because I care too much about you to let you self-destruct.”
Glaring at him, I say, “You mean you care too much about the fate of the world, right? Well, guess what? I can’t do it. Whatever it is I’m supposed to do, I can’t do it. I can’t do anything!”
“I don’t care,” Griffin says. “About any of it.” I roll my eyes and try to turn away, but he grabs my arm and hauls me back. “I don’t. I don’t give a rat’s ass about the souls or the Devourers or what will happen if they get loose. The dead and the living have worked things out for millennia without you. They’ll keep doing it, one way or another. You, though, you I care about. You don’t deserve all the shit you’ve been put through. You don’t deserve to feel like this, to feel like nobody in this world cares about you…just you. No ulterior motives.
“Everyone has always wanted something from you from day one, right?” he asks. “The ghosts. Your parents. Your friends. Your followers online. My dad. Madeline. Timothy. Everyone. Who has ever come into your life and not expected or wanted something from you? And then when you disappoint them, they blame you. So you absorb the shame and guilt, hate yourself for being weak and not being everything to everybody. You do it until you’re filled to the brim and can’t possibly accept one more speck without imploding, right?”
I stare at him, stunned. I don’t know if he’s actually expecting an answer, I need to give him one. An honest one. “Yes.” I start crying in earnest then, and suddenly I’m in Griffin’s arms again.
“There is nothing in this world, or any other, that I want from you, Echo. Do you believe that?” he asks as he brushes my soggy hair back from my face.
I nod, realizing I really do believe him.
“Good,” he says, “now come with me. I have an idea.” The way he says idea sounds like it’s one he’s going to get in trouble for, but I will follow him into just about anything right now.
30: The Point
(Griffin)
Dad is going to murder me for this, but the gym is closed, it’s too late to go to the tree, and we’re way past the point of meditation or a tub of ice cream. I’ll deal with the consequences after I make sure Echo doesn’t run her car into a tree or something equally stupid and dangerous. I keep a steely grip on her hand as I tug my keys from my jeans pocket and unlock the door to my temporary home.
Echo doesn’t say anything as I push her inside. Dad should be on his way to check on Timothy right now. Hopefully it will take a while and he won’t be home any time soon. Echo doesn’t fight me when I tell her to sit on the couch. She curls in on herself the second I let go of her hand. Her eyes widen at the loss of contact and she begins rocking back and forth. Giving in to my offer of help by no means fixed anything inside her.
Hurrying into the kitchen, I grab several bottles from the fridge and don’t waste any time getting back to her. She stares at me in confusion when I twist the top off one and hold it out to her. “You want me to drink that?”
“Have you ever had a beer before?” I’ve seen her fake I.D., but have no idea whether or not she’s ever used it. When she shakes her head back and forth, I’m not surprised. I doubt her parents kept alcohol in the house given what they believed to be her psychiatric issues and need for attention. Combine that with their iron-fisted control over her life, and I bet she never snuck out to a party to try it either.
I place the beer bottle in her hand and say, “Drink it.”
“Why?”
Sighing, I sit down next to her and twist the top of my beer. “This is hardly the best way to manage what you’re going through, but we don’t have a lot of options at midnight on a Tuesday. It will help enough to get you through tonight. Tomorrow we’ll try something else.”
She’s skeptical, but trusts me enough to lift the bottle to her lips with the still-trembling hands. Or she’s desperate enough. It’s hard to tell with everything swimming around inside her right now. Dad is so going to kill me for this. Tentative, yet begging for any kind of relief, Echo tips the liquid into her mouth. She splutters the second she tastes it and screws up her face in disgust.
“Gross! Is it supposed to taste like that?”
I can’t help laughing and take a small swig of mine. “Yes. It grows on you after a while.”
She shakes her head. “No it won’t. That’s disgusting.” But she takes another drink. Then another.
I’m tempted to tell her to slow down, because I know she hasn’t eaten anything since lunch. The beer isn’t that strong, though, and she needs to dull the memories and pain quickly before they break through the emotional barrier she’s barely holding in place. I want it to come down, but not yet. Not before she can process at least some of what she faced tonight without breaking under the weight of it.
“How long does it take for this stuff to…work?” Echo asks. She’s clutching the bottle with both hands and they’re still shaking.
“Not long considering you’ve got an empty stomach. Sit tight while I get you some water.”
“Water?”
“Alcohol dehydrates you, which gives you a nasty hangover. You have to drink water along with alcohol to keep that from happening.”
I get up and head for the kitchen. I’m already going to be in enough trouble for this as it is without leaving Echo completely incapacitated tomorrow morning. I grab several water bottles from the fridge and spot a few other, possibly more palatable options for Echo. Personally, I can’t stand sugary mixed drinks, but this might prove a more effective plan if she doesn’t vomit up her drinks before they do any good.
As I grab the bottle of pre-mixed margarita from the door, I decide to try the Bloody Mary mix as well. Mixing alcohols is a sure way to make her sick, but just a taste of each until I find one she can stand should be fine. On the top shelf is a half empty bottle of Bailey’s, but I pass on that and go for the bottle of Vodka I have no doubt will be in the freezer. I pull it out from between several frozen meals and sigh. Dad doesn’t usually keep this much alcohol in the house. Echo isn’t the only one struggling to get through this case. Deciding to deal with that later, I carry everything back to the living room.
“I don’t know if I can drink any more of this,” Echo says. She’s still clutching the half-empty bottle, but looks like she’s going to hurl if I tell her to keep going.
I take the bottle from her and set it on the coffee table. “Try this,” I say, pouring the Bloody Mary mix into a glass for her. It’s less bitter than the beer, so hopefully she can stomach it. If I had been planning ahead, I would have g
otten something light for her rather than the dark beers Dad and I prefer, but this wasn’t exactly what I thought I’d be doing tonight.
Handing the glass over, I watch as Echo studies it. “What is it?”
“Basically spiked V8. Try it. It shouldn’t upset your stomach as much.”
She grimaces, but lifts the glass and takes a drink. She pushes the glass back at me right away. “Sick, it’s like drinking spicy salsa! Why would you give that to me? Does any alcohol taste good?”
“Not at first,” I say, chuckling at her reaction, “except maybe those girly cocktails that are more sugar than alcohol, but all that sugar can also leave you with a nasty hangover—which I’m trying to avoid. You get used to the taste after a while.” She grimaces, not believing me at all. I’m batting zero so far, but I pour some of the margarita into a clean cup and set it on the table in front of her. “Drink some water first.”
More than happy to drink that, she guzzles half the bottle. She’s likely already a little dehydrated after being out for half the day and then crying half her bodyweight away. Not that I blame her for the crying. After what Malachi told us, frankly, I’m surprised she’s doing as well as she is. She was walking a tightrope of control before watching Robert Bridger sacrifice himself. It would have been bad enough to witness without Timothy there. With him, I know how hard his begging and telling Echo he hated her must have hurt.
Wary of trying anything else, Echo stares at the yellow liquid. “Isn’t this supposed to be in a different type of glass?”
“You’re concerned about my choice in stemware right now?” I scoff. “How do you now, anyway?”
“Zara ordered a margarita that night at the club Malachi played at.”
“This is the best I could do on short notice. Drink it.”
She grimaces, but picks the glass up off the table. Her first sip is tiny. Surprise lights her features and she takes a bigger sip. “This isn’t that bad.” Her nose crinkles a moment later. “Weird aftertaste, though.”
The Ghost Host: Episode 2 (The Ghost Host Series) Page 26
