Kane

“Can’t live like this anymore.” Sam’s voice is hollow, and I can tell he’s on something.

“Where are you?”

Silence.

“Sam. Where. The. Fuck. Are. You?”

“Doesn’t matter. I’m already gone.”

“What the fuck does that mean?”

More silence.

I grab my car keys, then slam my apartment door behind me before racing towards the elevator, jamming my thumb at the button multiple times as if it’ll make it come faster.

“Sam?” I bellow into the phone.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

But he’s not. Not really. His mind is messed up, and not just from the drugs. Even when he’s not on anything, which isn’t often anymore, he’s been saying some pretty weird shit.

“Where are you?”

“Apartment.”

“I’m on my way over.” In the parking garage, I put my car in reverse, squealing the tires. “Just don’t do anything stupid before I get there.”

“Too late.” The words are heavy, like he’s fighting off sleep.

Fuck.

“What did you do?”

“Love you, man.” His breath comes out in a wheeze. “Take care of Brynne for me.”

“Don’t fucking put that shit on me. You’re going to be fine. Tell me what you took. I’m hanging up. Calling an ambulance-”

“She’s always cared about you. And I know…” He sounds so fucking tired, like every word is strained. “I know you love her. It’s bullshit you never did anything about it.”

“I’m hanging up now. I’ll be there soon.”

As soon as I end the call, I dial 911.

I’m not a religious person, never have been. But I pray to any God who’ll listen to make me get to him on time.

The elevator in his shitty apartment is out of order. I take the stairs two at a time until I reach the seventh floor.

I bang on the door. “Sam, open up.”

No answer.

Fear strangles me.

“Open the fucking door.”

When he doesn’t respond, I step back and slam my heel against the door. The old wood splinters slightly, but doesn’t budge. I kick four more times before the old hinges give in.

Sam’s lying on the couch, face pale, eyes closed, the needle still stuck in his fucking arm.

I scramble over the fragmented door, bile burning my throat.

Grabbing his shoulders, I shake him hard. His eyes stay closed.

“Come on, asshole. Don’t pull this shit on me.” I hold his face in my hands and yell at him. His skin is cool, the sockets of his eyes so sunken they look black, and his lips are a disturbing shade of purple.

No. No. No.

“You’re dying on me, fucker.” I slap him hard. “Wake up.”

Still, nothing. Where the hell are the paramedics? They should be here by now.

What do I do?

Check if he’s breathing. The thought slams into my skull, breaking something inside me. Because I already know the truth.

He’s gone.

I place two fingers on his neck, pressing down, praying for even the faintest pulse.

Nothing.

“Damn you, Sam,” I cry, trying to remember the basic CPR training I’d received. I press my palm into his chest and press over and over again. One. Two. Three. Four…

I tilt his chin back, opening his mouth, and breathe.

“Come on.” I start compressions again.

I don’t know how much time goes by. Seconds. Minutes. Hours.

There’s a commotion behind me. People coming out of their apartments, whispering, watching, but no one comes to help.

“Sir, you can step back now,” someone says, as another person takes over my compressions.

The room spins. I blink and time speeds up, then slows down, like a horrible movie playing violently in front of me.

The paramedics work. They’ve got their paddles out, and when they press it against Sam’s bare chest, his body jerks. For a moment, there’s hope.

I hold on to that moment, even when I see the small shake of the paramedic’s head.

A roar sounds in my ears, screaming that this isn’t happening. It’s just a nightmare. One I need to wake up from, now.

“Sir?” Someone is talking to me. The paramedic. A man in his early forties, and there’s sympathy in his eyes when he places his hand on my shoulder. He keeps talking, but I don’t hear his words. The only thing I hear is, “I’m sorry.”

My back hits the wall and I sink to the floor, my legs giving out on me as I watch them place him on the stretcher.

I’m numb. Frozen. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. The only thing that jolts me out of my black hole of misery is the small, strangled cry from the door.

Brynne stands there, looking like she just crawled out of bed, still wearing pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt. She doesn’t see me. Her gaze, wide and desperate, is focused on her brother’s lifeless body.

She sways like she’s going to pass out.

I push myself off the floor, ready to grab her, but she’s already staggering over the broken door towards his body.

“Sam?” She pushes past the paramedics, dropping on his body, and I see her flinch when she touches him. “No.”

The older of the two paramedics places a hand on her shoulder. “Miss-”

“Why aren’t you helping him?” Her eyes are wild now. “Help him!”

“I’m sorry. He’s-”

“No.” She staggers away from him, swaying again.

This time, I’m there. I clutch her elbows, holding her steady.

She looks up at me, and I can tell it’s the first time she’s seen me. “Kane? Tell them to help him.”

I give a small shake of my head, grief squeezing my chest so hard I feel like my heart is going to explode.

“He’s gone.”

She tries to pull away, but I hold her, wrapping my arms around her small frame, and trembling when I feel rather than hear her sob against my chest.

“He…he called me.” Her hands ball into fists in my shirt. “I was just talking to him. He sounded…wrong.”

Fuck, Sam. You selfish piece of shit.

He had to know she’d come. That she’d find him like this.

I keep my hand on the back of her head, pressing it against my chest, so she doesn’t see when the paramedics place the white sheet over Sam’s face.

One of the paramedics is talking to me, something about making a statement to the police, something about the drugs.

“Yeah, sure, whatever,” I mumble, holding Brynne tighter.

I feel her tense in my arms.

“You were with him.” It isn’t a question. She pulls back, and when she glances up at me, there’s accusation in her gaze. “This was you.”

I let my hands drop to my sides when she twists away from me, her eyes darting around the room, taking in the drugs that still litter the coffee table. The syringes and pills. Some black tarry substance, and a bag of weed. Fuck, I don’t even know what half the shit is. But I know it’s bad.

“Brynne,” I drag my fingers through my hair. “I’m sorry-”

“Sorry?” She hits my chest, tears streaming down her cheeks. “You think getting high is some sort of game? You killed him. It should be you laying there, not him.”

One of the paramedics looks over at me with raised brows.

“Stop it.” I grab her arm and force her to look at me. “Do I look fucking high?”

She glares at me, and I know that no matter what I say, she’ll see what she wants. Anything to take the blame off Sam for being a fucking coward.

He could put on a good face, especially for Brynne. When she was around, it was probably the only time I saw him sober.

I’d warned him repeatedly not to keep messing with this shit. Even told Coach about it. Begged them both to get him some help.

When he didn’t, I pulled away.

Yeah, I was a shitty fucking friend. But I couldn’t watch as he destroyed himself.

Maybe if I’d been around more. If I’d pushed him into rehab. Maybe I wouldn’t be standing here watching as the emergency crew carry his lifeless body out the door.

Eyes red, face swollen, Brynne glares at me with all the hatred I feel for myself. I know what she’s doing, using anger as a shield to protect herself from the grief that could drown her if she let it.

I could defend myself. Scream back. Tell her I’d hadn’t been part of the crazy shit Sam was always involved in. That it was him, not me, that bought the cocaine the night she’d seen us. That I’d never touched the stuff – ever.

But I don’t.

Because I know whatever I say, she’ll never believe me.

She needs to make me the villain, because in her eyes Sam could never do anything wrong. Not even when he was higher than a kite, and pawning her things for drug money.

If I didn’t give a shit about her, maybe I’d fight her on it. Make her see that I’m not the bastard she thinks I am.

But the warped thing about this whole mess is I do care. Too damn much.