part two: summer, 2011

“i filled out the organ-donor information on the back of my license.”

“that’s good, blake. very kind of you.”

“every thursday i see charlie at the hospice. charlie needs a liver. maybe when they find me, they can give him mine?”

“that’s a good thing to write in your note.”

“that’ll be my very next sentence! you’re full of good ideas, rosie. i’m glad you’re here.”

“try to focus, hon. and remember, don’t mention me. keep this note about yourself.”

“the world can be cruel, rosie.”

“focus, blake.”

“katie didn’t ask for me, rosie. all she ever wanted was NORMAL. dad wanted normal too. instead they got ME.”

“i’m sorry.”

“that’s what i like about you, little rosie. you understand me. katie understood too. she was a good lady; said she was enabling me, so she kicked me out. i'm telling her in my note that it’s not her fault; that kicking me out was just what i needed. told her it’s not her fault that i’m killing myself.”

“i think that’s sweet.”

“katie deserves better. deserves a-a-a real prince charming. somebody that can take c-care of her and buy her earrings.”

“it’s about that time, hon.”

“time?”

“to do this.”

“so soon? maybe we c-could talk for just a-a-a little longer.”

“we’ve been talking for two days, blake. it’s time.” jules lifted her skirt and unclipped the case of pills.

“what are those, rosie?”

“pills. like we talked about online.”

“no pills, rosie. i will not swallow any COCK-SUCKING pills.”

jules was higher than a kite and teetered the line between “finish the damn job” and “catatonic.” luckily, blake’s bathroom already smelled like crusted puss and mold; so she managed to sneak away six times in six hours to light up in the rare haven from her boyfriend’s incredulous eye. “if you won’t take the pills, how did you plan on doing this?” she asked.

blake nodded to the massive window on the far left wall. “i took out the screen. managers say we’re not supposed to do that, but i did it for us, rosie.”

a sudden onset of paranoia wrapped its cold fingers around her neck. calm down, jules. it’s just bad weed. “i’d really like to use the pills, blake. maybe you—”

“NO. FUCKING. PILLS.” blake wrangled himself from the floor to a standing position, then slowly carried himself across the forsaken condominium as if he was nursing an entire keg instead of a single bottle of whisky. his free arm jerked rapid circles as he spun the window’s lever and welcomed the stale air, perpetual grit, and dull mechanical drone of DETROIT into the sixteenth-floor wasteland loft.

jules was too blazed to care. “why can’t you swallow pills, blake?”

“pills pills pills pills PILLS. always pills, rosie. every day there’s more pills and more pills and more pills and they don’t work THEY DO NOT WORK.” his hand clenched her shoulder.

she flinched.

“i’m sorry i screamed, rosie. you’re a good gal for putting up with me. that katie was a good gal too. whenever i got angry...”

as blake rambled about his katie and her unmatched capacity for tolerance and the gold locket he purchased for her thirty-seventh birthday and the blah blah blah blah, jules thought of trevor sitting just outside the condo door, caressing his stubble with the barrel of the revolver (a growing habit since “the lighthouse incident”), bouncing his leg... and listening.

jules confronted trev last week: “blake will be number ten, baby. when will this stop?”

he scratched his chin with the gun. “when i’m satisfied.”

now, NUMBER TEN was kneeling and hugging jules with his putrid shirt pressing her nose ring into her cheek. the pills softened in her moist palm.

“if i d-d-die in here, they’ll find me. i c-c-can’t have them find me, rosie. i’ve always been such a bother. SUCH A BOTHER. when we die on the street, somebody’ll just sweep us away. that way, d-d-dad won’t have to find us.” blake nuzzled her neck.

she pushed against the man’s chest but his biceps hardened.

“dad was the only person who c-c-c-could help me, rosie. he knew when i was thinking RIGHT, and when i was thinking WRONG.”

“i don’t know what that means, honey.” when jules spoke, her lips brushed an unidentifiable stain on his shirt.

“i mean i’m fucked in the head, little rosie.”

“you need to explain it to me, blake. can you let go and tell me about it?”

“i-i-i... i’m bipolar, rosie. dad could help me. he knew when i was ME, and when i WASN’T. i dunno if i’m ME right now, rosie.”

jules squirmed but blake’s arms tightened like brother pythons fighting a rat. she pleaded, “i didn’t know you were sick. if you let me go, we can—”

“i’m sorry, katie,” blake said, blubbering like a child with a scraped knee. “i never meant to hurt you.”

“it’s okay, hon,” jules said as she fought the escalating claustrophobia. “sit back down, and maybe we can use your whisky to dissolve the—”

“NO. GOD. DAMN. PILLS.” the hug turned into an iron-clad grapple around her shoulders. “NO PILLS. NO DOCTORS. NO PILLS. NO DOCTORS. i want this to END, rosie.” blake stood with relative ease considering his intoxication.

jules kicked his stomach and beat her fists into his spine but he easily carried her over his shoulder to the open window.

“it’ll be over soon, little rosie.”

“trevor!” she screamed. 

blake braced himself on the frame, stepped from the floor to a chair and from the chair to the windowsill—

trevor barged in with gun drawn. 

the metallic WHACK of the front door made blake twist his head, rupturing the equilibrium of the girl, drunken psycho, and twirling chair.

as blake reeled, jules found herself staring at the sidewalk sixteen floors below in the slipping grip of the beast. she choked on a scream as blake’s ankle fully gave way to the rotating foothold and dropped his spine into the corner of the window’s ledge, bringing the girl’s heart to her chest and the sidewalk three feet closer. 

blake’s head smacked glass and his arms released jules in a rapid downward flight—butt first—to the condo floor. the sudden impact and loss of breath opened her fingers and scattered the pills.

trevor hurdled her torso and pointed the gun at the man slouched against the wall. 

blake cried, “ahhh! what the fuck, rosie!”

trevor shouted, “give him the pills, jules!”

she squeezed her eyes shut. her backbone was sore but not broken.

“who is this guy, rosie! get him away! get him away!”

trevor snapped off the gun’s safety. “shut your yap, asshole! julesie, get the pills!”

she rolled over, scoured the floor with trembling hands, and gathered all eight capsules from the crumbs and dust bunnies.

trevor grabbed them from her palm and jabbed his open fist into blake’s sweat-drenched face. “take them. TAKE THEM.”

“rosie?” blake said. “rosie?” he said again. “what’s happening?”

“he’s sick, trevor! let him go!”

“take the fucking pills!” trev pressed the gun to blake’s head.

“don’t bruise his temple!” she said.

“take the pills!” trev said again and cocked the revolver. “take the pills now or i blow your face all over the fucking room! do you want daddy to clean your splattered brain, blakey?”

“go away!” the man pleaded. “rosie, please! get him off me!”

trevor huffed with darkening cheeks. he kept the gun trained on blake’s head, gave the pills to the night, and ratcheted the window shut. he gripped the gun with both hands and looked to jules. “get me a pillow.”

she shook her head. “we can’t do this, baby—”

“GET ME A PILLOW.”

on blake’s bed was a single cushion, oily and thin but she snatched it and turned back to trev. she hugged the pillow to her breast and pleaded with her eyes. “he can’t help it,” she said and shook her head. “we can’t do this.”

“shut your mouth and give it to me.” he extended his arm.

in the moment of silence, blake’s hollow eyes found hers. they closed and opened intermittently and his body shook with every rapid breath. “what is this, rosie?” it was a gentle question, and jules couldn’t respond.

she looked back to trev. “we got the bags. please leave him alone!”

“he knows who we are. we don’t have a choice. now give me the pillow.” before jules could retort, trevor lunged and tore it from her arms, then held it between the barrel and blake’s face, and pulled the trigger. 

BAM.

the shattering blast sang in her ears. the pillow hardly muffled the sound.

trevor leapt and squealed and nearly clicked his heels like a leprechaun with a pot o’ gold.

a scarlet amoeba blossomed around the pillow’s hole. jules gagged but held back.

“show me the bags.” trevor demanded and holstered the weapon.

jules pointed. 

he crossed the room and rummaged through the loot. “socks? a locket? where’s the computer?”

jules managed enough oxygen to mutter, “he used the library’s computers to chat with us...”

“there’s gotta be more. get the hell over here and help me look.” he flipped over the mattress, opened and slammed every desk drawer, and fondled the dead man’s pockets.

he noticed the room’s only closet and routed his attention to that shallow cubby with the toaster-crumb remains of blake’s world.

while her boyfriend’s back was turned, jules slipped her fingers through the handle of her backpack, inched sideways toward the door, and made her escape. 

the echoes of her trampling boots joined the ringing in her ears as she charged and stumbled down the endless corridor of flickering fluorescent bulbs and cracked exit signs. the voice of her ex bounded from wall to wall, rattling the corridor and stiffening the hairs on her neck. 

but she didn’t turn back. if he was chasing her, then she was faster.

as jules clamored down the spiral steps, she hoped—she prayed—that blake’s room would swallow trevor whole; that the dead man’s hand would spring to life and latch onto his ankle until the neighbors smelled the rot and called the cops.