Chapter 9:

Fall to My Knees

“Alex! Come on, Alex, knock it the hell off!” I could hear someone talking, but it didn’t make any sense to me.

Nick. The name registered before the words.

Why won’t the kid just leave me alone? I can break shit if I want! It’s my house, damn it!

But instead of finding something else to throw I walked over and sat next to Howie, who was in the same spot he had been the whole time. He looked sick or something, and I saw him praying. It looked like it was hard for him...painful even. I don’t know how to describe it.

I must’ve zoned for a while ‘cause the next thing I knew, Nicky had picked up the receiver, and was calling someone. I stared at him. It pissed me off that he was socializing at a time like this.

“Get off,” I demanded.

“I’m calling Brian, you prick! Shut the hell up!” Nick stared me down, daring me to come after him now.

I avoided his eyes. I felt like hell that none of us had thought of Brian. But at least now Nick could talk to him and let him know that we were here for him and stuff.

I glanced up sharply when I heard my name. “Yeah,” Nick was saying. “Alex is right here. Sure I can put him on,” he looked confused, but handed it over to me anyway.

Taking the receiver wearily, I held it to my ear. “Bri, man. What’s up?” I asked, adjusting my position a little, so I didn’t have to watch Howie pray anymore.

“What the hell happened, Alex?” Brian asked. His voice was tense, and I could tell he was real broken up.

I didn’t have a clue as to why he was asking me this. Didn’t he hear the first time? Outside choir with Nick? “What do you mean? I told you what happened,” I said flatly. And I ain’t sayin’ it again.

“Why the HELL didn’t you do something, Alex?” The tone of his voice gave me chills it was so dark. “You knew something was wrong! Call the ambulance sooner when he started talkin’ funny? God, Alex! My COUSIN is in friggin’ BRAIN SURGERY! God damn you! Why didn’t you do something? You knew he was in trouble...”

I listened, shaken, as Brian’s words faded. Then he started up again, crying uncontrollably. Slowly, I took the phone away from my ear and hung it up. I couldn’t even hear him anymore. It was so much of a shock to hear all that shit coming out of Brian’s mouth that I didn’t know what to do. And I went off again.

In a second I knocked the phone onto the floor, yanking the stupid cord out of the wall. I stomped on it repeatedly until I was sure it would never ring again. For a good measure, I threw the thing against the wall, like I did with Mom’s mug. Inside I wished it would shatter like the other thing had when I threw it at the wall before. But that didn’t happen with the phone.

I could feel adrenaline rushing through me as I walked fast to my bedroom and slammed the door behind me. Tears came to my eyes, but I refused to let them out. Not now.

Somewhere inside me, I wished that I did know. Even if he hadn’t made it, at least we’d know. All this waiting was ripping me apart. I couldn’t deal with the not knowing. It was too much. Why did we always end up doing some shit like this? I even said it myself a couple months back, and the guys thought I was crazy. I said it’d be better if I just didn’t make it. It sure as hell would’ve saved me a lot of pain. And surgery on your abdomen isn’t anything like brain surgery! God, I couldn’t imagine Kev having any good quality of life after something like that.

All the emotions inside me were begging to get out—the fear, the sadness, the loss—but I only let one escape—the one I could handle. The rage.

I tore the posters off my wall first. And then went after my closet, overturning the hat collection I’d once prided myself in. Anything I could break got smashed. All around me stuff was crashing, but it didn’t drown out the blood that still pulsed in my ears. Or the anxiety that ravaged its way through my body. It didn’t stop the tears I tried to keep in.

Blindly, I reached out for the picture of the five of us that had been taken the day of my final in acting class. It was framed. We were all there. I had just given the performance of my life. Kevin was standing to one side of me with an arm around me, looking proud. Kevin. He was in surgery now. He might not live. What good will a damn picture do then? No. A picture would only rip open the wounds that I tried to cover.

Forcefully, I drove the framed picture into the side of my dresser again and again—fighting a losing battle with myself for control I knew wouldn’t come. Finally giving up, I tossed it on the floor face up and drove it into the carpet with my foot. The glass cracked.

All the sudden I was down beside the picture, looking it over and inspecting the damage done. And I wasn’t sorry. I knew this was how it had to be for us. ‘Cause deep down we were just like that picture.

Fractured.