heavy.
âDavidââ I begin, but he cuts me off.
âYouâve been following me around your whole life,â he says. âWhy canât you leave me alone?â
âIâm trying to help. Iââ
âI donât need your fucking help! How many times do I have to say it before it gets through your stupid head? I donât need you. I donât want you here.â
âDavidââ
âLeave.â
âI justââ
âFucking leave, Marcus!â
I turn around before he can see the tears stinging my eyes. I walk out before he can say anything else. I leave, like he told me to. Just like everyone else.
I keep expecting to look at my phone and see a text from David asking to borrow money, to bring over some toilet paper, to buy him a burger. But days go by with nothing. Then weeks. I do everything I can think of, smoke everything I have, so I wonât think about him festering in that apartment. But nothing eliminates my worry. I know Iâm losing him. My brother, my one and only friend.
I keep texting. I keep calling. I say I want to see him. I say Iâm sorry, but Iâm not even sure what Iâm apologizing for. I am too happy to receive his sporadic short, cryptic texts back. I am grateful for his lies about being busy. At least I know heâs alive.
Something is my fault, I know it. I failed him. My guilt fuses with fear and love, and itâs getting harder and harder to tell the three apart.
So when David finally texts asking me to let him come over one night when Dad is working late in the city, I say yes. He tellsme he wants to grab a few things from his old room, but I know what heâs really there to do.
I sit in the kitchen while he roots around upstairs. After twenty minutes or so, he comes back down, his backpack bulging with things heâs not supposed to have. I tell myself he took things like Dadâs cuff links and watches, some electronics, harmless things made out of money. I donât think about other possibilities. I pretend I donât know what else Dad has. I pretend I donât notice the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tonight has set in motion something I will never be able to stop.
I drive him back to his apartment without mentioning any of the things that are spinning around in my head, nothing about the loneliness that threatens to swallow me up every night when Iâm home alone in my room, nothing about the box where I keep my drugs and razor blades, nothing about the net of scars thatâs growing on my shoulder, nothing about the infinite layers of pain that I canât get to the bottom of no matter how deep I cut. The person I want to talk to isnât there, hasnât been there for a long time. Heâs a skeleton with skin, inflated with smoke.
here.
I MEET MOM AT A COFFEE SHOP ON FOURTH STREET IN Berkeley, which is a very different scene from the places I usually hang out. This place is populated mostly by rich moms from the hills, surrounded by shopping bags from upscale boutiques as they sip their soy chais. Mom used to do a lot of damage on this street, when shopping and drinking were her only hobbies. I wonder if sheâs gained any other hobbies in the two years since she left.
âWhat are you going to get?â she asks me, trying too hard to appear relaxed and chipper. The side of her mouth twitches.
I look at the menu, drawn in careful calligraphy on the wall behind the counter. Maybe the new me should try to eat something besides the usual burritos and snacks and pastries I live on. Thereâs something called a Green Power Smoothie that costs nine dollars. Momâs paying, so I get that.
We sit at a table by the window. Mom holds her coffee cup with both hands, as if sheâs freezing and trying to warm up.I take a sip of the smoothie and nearly gag. It tastes like grass and seaweed.
âThis is disgusting,â I say. âIâm going to get a
âDavidââ I begin, but he cuts me off.
âYouâve been following me around your whole life,â he says. âWhy canât you leave me alone?â
âIâm trying to help. Iââ
âI donât need your fucking help! How many times do I have to say it before it gets through your stupid head? I donât need you. I donât want you here.â
âDavidââ
âLeave.â
âI justââ
âFucking leave, Marcus!â
I turn around before he can see the tears stinging my eyes. I walk out before he can say anything else. I leave, like he told me to. Just like everyone else.
I keep expecting to look at my phone and see a text from David asking to borrow money, to bring over some toilet paper, to buy him a burger. But days go by with nothing. Then weeks. I do everything I can think of, smoke everything I have, so I wonât think about him festering in that apartment. But nothing eliminates my worry. I know Iâm losing him. My brother, my one and only friend.
I keep texting. I keep calling. I say I want to see him. I say Iâm sorry, but Iâm not even sure what Iâm apologizing for. I am too happy to receive his sporadic short, cryptic texts back. I am grateful for his lies about being busy. At least I know heâs alive.
Something is my fault, I know it. I failed him. My guilt fuses with fear and love, and itâs getting harder and harder to tell the three apart.
So when David finally texts asking me to let him come over one night when Dad is working late in the city, I say yes. He tellsme he wants to grab a few things from his old room, but I know what heâs really there to do.
I sit in the kitchen while he roots around upstairs. After twenty minutes or so, he comes back down, his backpack bulging with things heâs not supposed to have. I tell myself he took things like Dadâs cuff links and watches, some electronics, harmless things made out of money. I donât think about other possibilities. I pretend I donât know what else Dad has. I pretend I donât notice the feeling in the pit of my stomach that tonight has set in motion something I will never be able to stop.
I drive him back to his apartment without mentioning any of the things that are spinning around in my head, nothing about the loneliness that threatens to swallow me up every night when Iâm home alone in my room, nothing about the box where I keep my drugs and razor blades, nothing about the net of scars thatâs growing on my shoulder, nothing about the infinite layers of pain that I canât get to the bottom of no matter how deep I cut. The person I want to talk to isnât there, hasnât been there for a long time. Heâs a skeleton with skin, inflated with smoke.
here.
I MEET MOM AT A COFFEE SHOP ON FOURTH STREET IN Berkeley, which is a very different scene from the places I usually hang out. This place is populated mostly by rich moms from the hills, surrounded by shopping bags from upscale boutiques as they sip their soy chais. Mom used to do a lot of damage on this street, when shopping and drinking were her only hobbies. I wonder if sheâs gained any other hobbies in the two years since she left.
âWhat are you going to get?â she asks me, trying too hard to appear relaxed and chipper. The side of her mouth twitches.
I look at the menu, drawn in careful calligraphy on the wall behind the counter. Maybe the new me should try to eat something besides the usual burritos and snacks and pastries I live on. Thereâs something called a Green Power Smoothie that costs nine dollars. Momâs paying, so I get that.
We sit at a table by the window. Mom holds her coffee cup with both hands, as if sheâs freezing and trying to warm up.I take a sip of the smoothie and nearly gag. It tastes like grass and seaweed.
âThis is disgusting,â I say. âIâm going to get a
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