I was going to have to get myself up those damn stairs, no matter what.
I was going to contact my Rumple.
At the bottom of the stairs, I tried to get my breathing under control, calm myself, and figure out just how the hell I was going to shove a needle into my own arm. I mean, really, how does somebody do that? Just shove it in, or does it have to be in the right spot? Did I have to hit a vein or muscle?
I had no fucking clue.
I tried to remember exactly where Steven had placed it, and when I looked over my arm, I could still see a slight bruise there.
Well, that settled that. I would go for the same spot.
I took another deep breath.
Damn.
I wasn’t sure if I could inject myself or not, so I decided to see just how far I could get first. Then I’d do it if I needed it. I was only wearing a pair of sweats and a T-shirt, though. I didn’t have any pockets, so I stuck the damn needle in my teeth and started up the first set of stairs.
The first three were okay. Once I got to the point where my whole body was on the stairs, it got harder. My legs were kind of in my way because I didn’t have enough control over them to keep them from holding me back. Not only was I pulling my body weight up, but I was also trying not to get my feet caught on the stairs as I advanced. Slowly.
I knew from years of traversing them that there were nine stairs for the first set, then what would have been two strides to get around the landing, then six more to get to the second floor. After another landing, there were thirteen more steps to the third floor. By the time my arms had reached the first landing, I was completely and totally wiped out, and I still needed to pull up the rest of my body.
Sweat was pouring from my forehead and into my eyes, and I was panting so hard, it was making my head swimmy. My muscles burned with the effort to pull myself even another six inches. If the stairs hadn’t been open—giving me a place to get a good grip—there was no way I would have made it as far as I had. I pulled again, bringing my shoulders up to the level of the last step, and that’s when I didn’t have anything else to grab in order to go any farther.
Collapsing onto the stairs with my head on the landing, I lay there and felt like I was going to pass out. My eyes closed, and despite how uncomfortable lying on the stairs was, I could have fallen asleep right then and there.
No…can’t do that. Gotta get Rumple…
I took the hypodermic out of my mouth, wiped some drool off the edge and tried to figure out what the hell I was supposed to do now.
Just shove it in there and do it, I told myself.
Easier thought than accomplished.
I looked from my arm to the needle and then from the needle to my arm. They didn’t seem interested in magically joining up, so I took a few deep breaths, put the tip of the needle up against my skin, right over the previous bruise and…
… and just sat there, staring.
“Dammit,” I grumbled to myself. “Stop being such a pussy.”
I closed my eyes, took another breath, and shoved the needle into my arm.
“Mother FUCKER!” I screamed. It fucking hurt! I growled and groaned and wanted to yank the damn thing out, but I knew if I did, I would never, ever be able to get it back in. So I gritted my teeth, squeezed my eyes shut, and shoved down on the plunger.
I yelled out a few more choice words and yanked the now empty hypodermic needle from my skin. There was some blood there—but it was only a spot. I must not have done too bad a job of it.
I knew within a few seconds that it was working.
Heart pounding, blood racing, hands shaking—but definitely ready to grab hold of anything I could reach—I tossed the damn needle away and started pulling again. I grabbed the edge of the next flight of stairs and yanked up as hard as I could, muscles screaming. I scraped my chest slightly on the edge of one stair, but it just burned a little. My eyes kept blinking over and over again, and I just tried to ignore everything around me but the next stair.
And the next…
And the next…
I pulled and pushed until my legs made it to the second landing, where I had to pause and force myself not to throw up. Then I reached out and grabbed the first step of the final flight. Pull, shift, groan; pull, shift, groan…
Another step.
Another.
The top.
I could have cried in relief, but I still had to get to the end of the short hallway.
Pull, shift, groan.
Don’t stop.
Gotta contact Rumple.
I flipped over on my back and tried pushing myself along the floor that way. At least the change in position was using a slightly different set of muscles, because the ones I had been using were just about done. It didn’t work, though, because sitting upright was making me dizzier. I flopped back down on my stomach and used my elbows.
Pull, shift, groan.
One more pull with my fingers digging into the plush carpet brought me to the doorway of my room. I had to stop again, panting and wheezing and feeling like my heart was trying to burst right out of my chest. My hands were shaking so badly, it was getting harder and harder to propel myself along, but I didn’t let myself rest too long. I was too close to my goal.
Contact Rumple.
I pulled my arms back up underneath me, braced them against the floor and pushed my body forward again, flopping down on my chest with a bit of a gasp. I did it again and again, and in this way I managed to get inside my bedroom and move myself over to the closet door.
Of course, due to my need for order, the door to my closet was closed.
I looked up at the handle and sighed between pants. I rolled myself over onto my back and pushed myself up until I was sitting down with my back against the wall next to the door. I reached up and touched the bottom of the handle with the tips of my fingers. I strained, tilted my body a bit to the side, and twisted the knob enough to open it.
My side felt like it was on fire from the stretching, but at least the door was opened up a crack. I pushed, and it opened the rest of the way. I looked high up to the shelf where my laptop was stored, knowing immediately that there was no way I could reach that high.
Was I ever, ever going to catch a break?
Break.
That’s what I was going to have to do—break something to get it to fall, and then hope to God the damn thing would still work. At least I knew through my own diligence that the battery would be fully charged.
I looked around and saw my heavy winter coat dangling from a hanger. I scooted to where I could grab it, pulled it down—breaking the hanger in the process—and positioned it over my head. I was starting to get dizzy and feel a little nauseated as my heart continued to pound and my hands continued to shake. I knew I wasn’t going to last much longer. Taking yet another deep breath, I closed my eyes, tightened the coat around my head, and slammed my shoulder against the set of shelves.
Some of my books fell along with a stack of school folders and one of those boxes of sixty-four crayons with the little sharpener in the back. No laptop, though I could see it had shifted a bit with the impact. I slammed into the shelves again, raining more crap down on my head, but at least the coat blocked anything from hitting me too hard.
I peeked out from under the coat and saw the laptop sticking about a third of the way off the shelf. One more hit ought to take care of it. I covered my head again, tried to ignore the pounding in my chest, braced myself and smashed into the shelves a third time. The laptop fell, landing straight on my knee, which hurt like a bitch. I really didn’t care, though. I got it!
I dropped down to the floor and lay there as my fingers worked the switch on the side, opened it, and turned it on.
I could have sworn it took about seven and a half million years for the damn thing to boot up.
“Be online, be online, be online,” I chanted as the little “Starting Windows” message disappeared, and the laptop displayed my Manuel Neuer desktop theme. I
waited for the IM to automatically start…
…and then remembered I had deleted my account.
“Fuck fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck!” I screamed and beat my fist on the carpet.
I rolled to my stomach as my arms, side, and knee all protested the shift in position. I pulled up Google, found the right app, created a new account, screamed at whatever bastard had snatched up SoccerGod2014, and managed to create one called NeedMyRumple instead. With a few more keystrokes, I opened up my little hacking program to get into her account.
Again, I started with the “be online” chant.
I accepted the friend request and waited for her profile to pop up in the otherwise empty list of friends.
BeautifulSkye18’s status was offline.
“Arrrghhh!!!” I screeched and dropped my head to the floor. My temples were pounding, my pulse could clearly be felt in every artery in my body, and I was really, really close to throwing up. I squeezed my eyes shut, and my vision went blurry. There were tears in my eyes, which just pissed me off. I reached out once more, set BeautifulSkye18’s profile to notify me with a chime when her status changed, turned the volume to the highest setting, and passed out.
There was some cat screeching at me, and I couldn’t figure out why.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
It was fucking loud, too, and my head was pounding.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
My eyes opened slowly, and I tried to figure out where I was and what I was doing there.
Closet…I’m in my closet…
Why?
I closed my eyes again.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
That sound was seriously annoying, but at the same time seemed somewhat important. My head continued to pound at my temples, and I pried my eyes open long enough to reestablish that I was on the floor of my closet, lying amongst a pile of crayons with the edge of my laptop up against my nose.
Meow! Meow! Meow!
The laptop was flashing.
BeautifulSkye18 is online.
Rumple!
I moved my hand from my side and touched the keyboard. I tapped the square at the bottom twice and a little window appeared. My eyes started to close again, and my head felt heavy even though I was still lying on the floor.
I had to stay awake.
NeedMyRumple: need u
My fingers kind of locked up on me, and I could taste bile in my throat. I swallowed.
BeautifulSkye18: oh Thomas—I need you too! Dad is trying to work something out. He said it could take a day or two, though.
Ugh. I shook my head and took a deep breath.
NeedMyRumple: now pls
BeautifulSkye18: I want to—I do, but your dad won’t let me in the door!
My fingers shook as I tried to tap on the keyboard.
NeedMyRumple: hes ded
BeautifulSkye18: what?
NeedMyRumple: cooime now pleadse
BeautifulSkye18: Thomas—what do you mean?
Thomas?
Thomas! Answer me! What do you mean? Dead? Is your dad dead???
THOMAS!!!
I’m coming, baby—hang on. Dad too. We’ll be there ASAP
I could still see the screen, but it looked blurry, and my fingers were no longer functioning. I closed my eyes and was encompassed by darkness.
I could hear someone calling my name, but it was like hearing something while you’re under water. I tried opening my eyes, but they just didn’t want to cooperate. Slowly, the sounds seemed to get closer, and then I could actually make out the words.
“Thomas? Thomas? Oh my God…Dad!! He’s up here!!”
Footsteps…someone’s hand on my arm. My arm jerked a little…reflexive…involuntary. More words—muffled and distant—then another voice nearby.
“Thomas? Can you hear me, baby?”
That sound…that voice. I knew that voice.
“Rumple…”
“It’s me, Thomas.”
I managed to open my eyes a crack, and I saw the most beautiful angel in the world—with deep blue eyes and deep, rich, long hair hanging around her perfect face. I could feel her touch on my cheek, and I had the most important realization I had ever had in my entire life.
It’s over.
“Rumple!” I cried out, and my arms found just enough strength to grab on to her and pull her against my chest. Her arms went around me, too, and she whispered into my ear.
“It’s okay, Thomas,” she said. “It’s okay—I’m here.”
I felt her turn slightly and tightened my grip.
“Don’t go!” I begged.
“I’m not going anywhere,” she promised. “Dad!”
I felt the slight pressure of fingers on the inside of my wrist.
“His heart’s beating really fast,” Greg murmured. “EMTs are on their way. Five minutes, tops.”
“What about…what about his dad?”
“Looks like he shot himself,” I heard Greg say.
“Oh my God,” Nicole said with a gasp. “Thomas…you’re okay. Help is on the way. Stay with me, okay?”
“Okay.”
I inhaled deeply, taking in the scent of her all around me.
“Thomas?” Greg’s voice again. “Thomas, did you…inject yourself with something?”
“Uh huh,” I mumbled back.
“What?” Rumple cried, her shock evident in her voice.
“What was it, Thomas?” Greg asked.
“Adrenaline…so I could…get up here…”
“Shit,” Rumple hissed. I felt her arms tighten around me, and I think I smiled a bit.
“Missed you,” I said, and I tucked my head against her shoulder and closed my eyes again.
“I love you, Thomas,” she responded. “It will all be okay now.”
“Love…too…”
Shakespeare had some interesting thoughts, as spoken though Richard II: “I have been studying how I may compare, this prison where I live unto the world.” Somehow, I thought things would be a little better from here on out.
Now I was free.
CHAPTER 30
RESTART
It was raining.
Drizzling, really—it wasn't hard enough to qualify as rain. It was still wet, and it made one of the wheels on my chair squeak a bit as I nervously shifted the chair forward and backwards. My eyes looked forward, blankly staring as the coffin containing Dad's body was slowly lowered into a giant hole next to Mom's grave.
Nicole was behind me with her fingers gripping the handles of the wheelchair, and Greg was just a few feet away, kind of watching me constantly. I wanted to be pissed about him hovering and being overly concerned, but I couldn't be. I wanted to be annoyed that Nicole was insisting on wheeling me around, but I couldn't be ticked off about that either because she was there—with me.
I had been out of the hospital for exactly two hours. They only kept me there for a couple days of observation, wanting to make sure my body got rid of all the excess adrenaline and that there weren't any other complications caused by either the hormone, the injury to my side from falling out of the chair, or the exertion of pulling myself up the stairs.
I had to take their word for it—I didn't remember a thing.
It was weird. Dissociative amnesia, the doctors called it. I remembered going into Dad's study, finding the letter from Thomas Gardner, and Nicole being in the ambulance with me and playing with my hair as we left my house and headed for the hospital. Everything in the middle was a total blank.
Apparently, that was a good thing.
Considering I had spent a good chunk of my life remembering each and every detail of each and every day, it was strange to know I had completely lost a good twelve hours.
Reverend Walsh read from the Bible as those in attendance bowed their heads. He recited a little prayer, said amen, and that was the end of Doctor Lou Malone.
Anticlimactic, to say the least.
Then again, I wasn't so sure that he deserved much more.
Nicole moved
me backwards, out from under the little tent that was positioned over the gravesite, and into the drizzle. Greg was walking behind us, holding an umbrella and being all somber. We stopped on the walkway as a bunch of people gathered around to come up and pay their respects to me. I knew the faces, remembered most of the names, but everything was still a blur as they went by in droves. Teachers, people from the hospital, guys on my soccer team, Clint…
As Jeremy gripped my shoulder affectionately and Rachel kissed my cheek, Clint stood behind them, kicking at the ground. When the other two walked away, he took a timid step forward, and I raised my eyes to look at him.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” he replied.
He kicked the ground some more.
“Come here,” I finally said with a sigh and held my hand out to him. He took it, and I pulled him to me, wrapped an arm around his shoulders and hugged him. “We're good. I know it sounds totally fucked up, but I'm kind of grateful.”
I let go, and he pulled back, looking at me quizzically.
“Yeah,” he said, “that does sound fucked up.”
He finally smiled back and promised to bring me a copy of Shaolin Soccer on DVD for us to watch some time. The rain stopped as he walked away, and I shook hands and nodded a dozen times as people told me how sorry they were and offered to bring food over to the house for me. After a few minutes, almost everyone was gone from the cemetery. There were just a few still remaining, mingling about in groups of two or three.
Justin and Danielle came up to me as the crowd dispersed.
“I'll call you, and we'll meet to talk about your PT going forward, okay?” Danielle asked. I just nodded.
“I'd like to talk to you, too, Thomas,” Justin said, “if that's okay.”
“Yeah,” I said, “it is.”
Nicole put her hand on my shoulder, and I looked up into her concerned eyes.
“Tell him everything, Thomas,” she said softly.
I dropped my eyes to my lap and nodded. My pair of therapists—one for my broken body, one for my broken mind—walked off toward the parking lot.