Some Are Sicker Than Others (42 page)

After a few paces, he stopped and squared his body then drove his fists into the wall, one after the other, until his knuckles became bloody, one after the other, until the flesh from his hands stuck to the wall. Then, he screamed and threw his entire body forward, driving his forehead like a sledgehammer against the wall. It felt good, so he did it again, only harder, and harder and harder until all he could see was a wall smeared with red, the blood streaking down from the gash in his forehead, forming dark pools where the plaster had cracked. But he didn’t stop, because he knew he deserved it—he knew that this fucking punishment was his. He kept going, driving his head harder and harder, the tips of his teeth grinding against the soft, fleshy part of his gums. Then, all of a sudden, he began to feel dizzy. His muscles gave out and his body went limp. He crashed face-first into the carpet, the cartilage in his nose pushing back into his throat. He lay there for a while, staring at the blood streaks forming small pools at the base of the wall. The light in the room began to tunnel and all he could see was blackness and all he could hear was a sharp metallic ringing inside his ears. His eyes rolled back, his breathing became shallow, and the heaviness on his chest finally disappeared.

Chapter 30

The Discovery

DAVE sat like a gargoyle perched on top of the back yard balcony, watching all the patients going in and out of the sliding patio doors below. His toes were numb, his hands had turned purple, and his ears were tingling as if they’d been doused with ant poison. He couldn’t stay up here much longer. In another half hour or so, it was gonna be nighttime and any warmth from the sun would be long gone from the sky. He wished he could to go downstairs and thaw out underneath those space heaters, but he knew he wasn’t welcome. He knew all the other patients hated his guts. He was an outcast, now, an exile, a man alone, a man by himself. Everyone else had turned their back on him, including Monty and Sarah. For whatever reason, they were all plotting against him, trying to bring him down, trying to sell him out. Could Cheryl be behind it all? Was she really that manipulative? Did she have that much power, that much clout? Even if she did, how’d she even know about Sarah? How’d she know about his plans to get her to testify in court? He never told anyone. The only people who knew were Angie and his lawyer, Weinstein.

Wait a minute, what if it was Weinstein? What if he told Cheryl? What if the old son of a bitch had called her up? What if they were old friends, old lawyer buddies from college? What if they met to discuss the case and Cheryl somehow seduced him and got him to talk? He could’ve leaked the whole plan. He could’ve told Cheryl everything—that Sarah was gonna testify that the cops didn’t have reasonable suspicion. No, that couldn’t be it. That was impossible. But then why would Sarah lie? Why would she make up that ridiculous story? She didn’t call the cops. She didn’t try to get him to pull over. She was having a good time. She was singing and dancing. Hell, all the girls were, weren’t they?

Dave shook his head and cupped his hands together then took a deep breath and tried to blow life back into them. But they were too numb, too solid. They felt like frozen fish heads against his knees. Christ—now, what was he gonna do? How was he gonna get out of here? Without Sarah, he had no case.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the bottle of Suboxone, but there were only three pills left. Shit, that wasn’t gonna be enough. He needed more. His knee was really throbbing, probably because of all this stress.

He tossed back the pills and swallowed them with whatever saliva he could conjure then peered over the balcony and checked his watch. There was still another forty minutes before dinner was officially over, which meant the nurses and counselors, who ate last, would just now be sitting down. That meant the detox trailer would be empty at least for another twenty minutes, which gave him just enough time to get in and get out.

He pulled up his hood then stomped out his cigarette and made his way down the spiral staircase and out across the frozen lawn. As he headed towards the back gate, he tried walking as softly as possible, which was difficult to do on account of the snow being so god damn crunchy.

When he got inside the trailer, he shut the door behind him then started stomping his feet to bring feeling back to his toes. The trailer was warm, nice and toasty, and just as he suspected, there appeared to be no one around. “Hello?” he said, loud enough such that anyone in the back could hear him. “Is anyone here? Hello?”

When no one answered, he quickly limped over to the sliding glass window then poked his head through and looked around. The computer monitor was on, but there was no one sitting behind it. Perfect. This was his chance. Time to shine.

He went head first, his belly flat against the check-in counter, squeezing through the window like a baby seal being born. When he got to the other side, he dropped like a sack of potatoes onto the carpet, flat on his back, his eyes staring up at the ceiling. He brushed himself off then went right for the medicine cabinets, flung the doors open, and began scanning the rows and rows of pill bottles. The Suboxone was on the top, next to something called Dilaudid, which sounded kinda familiar. Where had he heard it before? Didn’t Cheryl use to take it after her C-section with Larry? She did, didn’t she? That meant it was probably pretty strong.

He pulled down a bottle and stuffed it into his pocket then replaced his empty bottle of Suboxone with a brand new one that was completely full. He shut the cabinets then squeezed back through the window and was about to leave the trailer when he heard the sound of something banging against a wall. What the hell? It sounded like a hammer smashing against drywall. And it was close too, probably right down the hall.

He pivoted on his toes and pushed through the saloon-swinging doorway then made his way down the dark, narrow hall. “Hello?” he said, his heart beating faster, his right ear cocked towards the sound. “Is someone there? Hello?”

When he got to the end of the hall, he stopped in front of a doorway. The banging was coming from inside, but the door was shut. This was Monty’s room, wasn’t it? “Hello?” he said, as he lightly tapped with his middle knuckle. “Is somebody in there? Monty? Is that you? Hello?”

All of a sudden, the banging stopped and there was a loud thud against the carpet, like a clump of snow falling from the overhang of a house. Dave grabbed the knob and tried to push the door inward, but it wouldn’t budge. There was something wedged between the wall and the door. “Hello?”

He got on his hands and knees and put his right cheek to the carpet, closed one eye and looked through the little space between the door and the floor. It looked like there was a body or something sprawled out near the bedposts. He strained his eyes, got in a little tighter, and could definitely make out the silhouette of a person lying on the floor. Who was that? Was that Monty? He got in tighter. Holy shit. It was. The blond hair was unmistakable and it looked like there was blood or something running down the cracks in the floor.

“What the fuck?” He pushed himself up and pressed his ear against the door. “Monty, can you hear me? Are you okay? Do you need help?”

He waited for a reply but there was no answer, so he lowered his shoulder and started ramming it against the door. But it wouldn’t budge—the kid was too heavy, so he started looking around frantically for something to wedge between the frame and the door. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.” He bit his nails as he paced up and down the hallway then ran into the bathroom and started opening and closing the counter drawers. What the fuck was he doing? What was he looking for? He needed something long and skinny that could fit through that god damn door. Then he saw it, in the mirror’s reflection. Of course. The shower curtain rod. He did an about face and grabbed a hold of it, yanking it down from in between the white tiled walls. He tore off the curtain then ran it through the hallway and jammed it in the little slit between the frame and the door. He got it halfway through then pulled as hard as he could backwards like some kind of maniac rowing a two-ton rowboat. The wood on the frame began to splinter and the door slowly inched forward. He got it open just enough to stick his foot though the crevice then squeezed and pulled as hard as he could. He was almost there—halfway through the doorframe—his crippled leg bending like an overloaded diving board. In one final thrust, he pulled himself forward and rolled out like a red carpet onto the bedroom floor. He crawled on his hands and knees over to Monty, then rolled the kid over and started shaking his shoulders. There was a round, golf ball-sized lump protruding from his forehead and spatters of blood on his face and shirt collar. “Monty,” he said, as he started slapping the kid’s face gently. “Come on kid, wake up, wake up.”

Dave held his forefinger just underneath the kid’s nostrils. The kid was definitely breathing. He could feel a slight tremble blowing from the kid’s nose. He stood up, moved behind him, and stuck his hands underneath his armpits. He dragged him like a corpse away from the splintered doorframe, across the floor, over to his bed. When he got him beside the bed, he set him down gently, like an infant, holding his hand underneath the kid’s head. Just as he set him down, the kid’s eyes came open and a pained groan rumbled from deep inside his chest.

“Monty?” Dave said, as he bent over him, his face hovering just above the kid’s lips. “Are you alright? Do you need help? Should I go get help?”

The kid coughed and lurched forward, shaking his head and clutching his chest. “No, don’t get anyone, I’m alright, I’m fine.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

Dave sighed and helped the kid upward, one hand on his back, the other behind his head. “You don’t look fine. Can you walk?”

The kid nodded, although the pain in his face said he probably couldn’t—his eyes were shut and his jaw was tensed. 

“Alright, here, let’s get you over to the bathroom.”

Dave took the kid’s arm and draped it over his shoulder, then straightened his legs and guided him to his feet. The kid wobbled, as if made of rubber, most of his weight falling on Dave’s bad leg. They took small steps through the doorway and out into the hall. When they got to the bathroom, Dave flipped on the light switch, and carefully eased Monty down onto the top of the porcelain bowl. He took a step back and surveyed the damage, looking at the bloody mess running down the kid’s forehead. “Jesus, it looks pretty bad. Are you sure you don’t want me to get the nurse?”

The kid shook his head adamantly. “No, please…it’s not that bad…it’s just a little blood. I’ll be fine. I just need to lie down.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“Alright, well let’s at least get you cleaned up, okay?”

Dave crouched down and grabbed a washcloth from underneath the sink then turned on the faucet and waited for the water to get warm. When it was warm enough, he ran the cloth underneath the water then brought it over to Monty and sat on the edge of the tub. As he raised the cloth, the water trickled down his forearms, dripping softly against the linoleum floor. He dabbed away carefully at the loose skin torn in the middle of the kid’s forehead and wiped away the blood that was dried to his jaw. The kid flinched and let out a whimper each time the cloth took away a piece of his skin. Dave apologized but kept dabbing, assuring the kid that it would only be a few more minutes. He took the cloth and stuck it back under the faucet and, as he wrung it out, the sink turned a shade of pink. When he sat back down, he noticed that the kid’s knuckles were also bleeding, the flesh hanging off the bone like dead leaves on a tree. Jesus Christ—what the hell happened? Did the kid beat his head and fists against the fucking wall?

He looked up at Monty. A cold chill ran through him, as he began to realize the disturbing severity of it all. What could have happened to make the kid so angry that he’d knock himself senselessly against a load-bearing wall? It wasn’t because of what he’d said to him earlier, was it?

Dave bit his lower lip as he lowered the washcloth then finished wiping away the last of the dried blood. “Alright kid,” he said, patting his hand against the kid’s knee, “I think I got most of it. You wanna go lay down?”

The kid nodded, without lifting his head upward, as if his chin was super-glued to the base of his neck.

“Alright, come on.”

Dave took the kid’s arm and draped it again over his shoulder then carefully helped him off of the toilet seat. They walked in parallel down the hallway, like a pair of soldiers returning from a hellish war. The kid had all his weight leaned against Dave’s shoulder and he let out a soft groan each time they took a step that was too wide apart.

When they got back into the bedroom, Dave eased Monty onto the edge of the mattress then helped him with his shoes and pulled his feet up onto the bed.

“Can I get you anything?” Dave asked, standing over him, not really too sure what to do or say next. “You want like some water or something?”

The kid didn’t respond and just rolled over, pulling the sheets up over his head.

Dave sighed then straightened his bad leg out in front of him and gently eased himself down onto the edge of the bed. He sat there for a moment, staring down at the carpet, his palms clamming up with heat and sweat. How did this work? What was he supposed to say to him? What in God’s name was he supposed to do next?

He cleared his throat and turned towards Monty. The silence was suffocating and unbearably thick. “I’m sorry about what happened earlier,” he said in more of a stutter, his mouth dry and his vocal chords ripped. “I shouldn’t have tried to spit on you. I was just pissed off and—”

“I’m not mad about that,” Monty said from underneath the covers.

“You’re not?”

“No. It’s your life. You can do whatever you want with it.”

“Oh.” Dave let out a sigh of relief. Thank God. The kid wasn’t mad at him. But then what would possess him to drive his head against a wall? “So, what are you so upset about? Did something else happen?”