Knuckles were visible on the top of the steering wheel, little white peaks over the dashboard. The black truck had been wandering for two hours now, rumbling up and down the streets of Port Charles. The gas gauge was nearly empty, but he made no plans to stop.
Sly ran a hand through his tangled blonde hair as a sob escaped his lips. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? Oh, God. Oh, God. Panic rose in his chest, and he felt as if he were going to be sick. No, stay calm, he reprimanded himself.
He recognized the familiar feeling of dread settling over him as he pulled into his street. I can't do this. I don't want to go home. A small part of his mind urged him to keep going. Don't look back. Don't look back.
The more logical part of his brain took over, and he slowly pulled the truck to a stop under the shade of a sycamore. He turned off the ignition with a shaking hand, and then leaned forward on the steering wheel, resting his chin on the top of it.
Sly closed his eyes, which were red and irritated. How can I face her? How do I tell her this? Small tremors radiated throughout his body. Everyone is counting on me.
You ruin everything you touch. His grandfather's words pierced through his consciousness. Sly snapped his head up and opened his eyes abruptly. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He pounded his fist against the dashboard. "You're dead!" He wanted to be free of these relentless memories, but they stalked him at every turn.
He looked up to the small bedroom windows of his apartment. What are we going to do? I let everyone down. Sly took another shaky breath as he remembered his wedding vows. For better or for worse. It's going to be ok. Just tell the truth.
Finally mustering his courage, Sly opened the door and stepped down from the cab. The May sunlight filtered through the trees, creating a veil of shadows that danced where he stepped. He opened the door to the lobby of the building and swallowed the fear gnawing away at his heart. "We're going to get through this," Sly said, whishing his conviction could match his words. "We have to."
*-*-*-*-*-*
Emily stared out of the sliding glass doors that led to the small balcony. She took deep breaths, in and out. Stress isn't good for the baby, she reminded herself. Then the anger swelled up in her chest again, and a bitter taste filled her mouth. How could he do this? Why?
She turned to look at the half empty bottle on the table. The clear liquid looked so innocent. The label shouted at her: vodka, 90 proof. She had a brief flashback to an earlier time, drinking in her bedroom with Matt. You'll like this, he had said. "If only you knew how right you were," she said, pausing for a second to remember her dead friend.
Emily could still remember the way the alcohol numbed everything- no pain, no fear. Eventually, she wanted a better high. Something more. She got her wish. Nobody could touch her then- she was invincible. Why couldn't real life be like that? Why couldn't she feel like that again, just one more time?
Just then, the baby gave her a kick, jolting her out of her memory. She held a hand to her face. I can't think about that. She brought another hand to her belly and rubbed it. "Thank God for you," she whispered. "I'm supposed to be keeping you safe, but you're the one who's protecting me."
She heard footsteps outside the door, and the jangle of Sly's keys. She steeled herself for the argument that was to follow. He was going to have a lot of explaining to do.
*-*-*-*-*-*
Memories are just where you laid
them
Drag the waters till the depths give up their dead
What did you expect to find
Was there something you left behind
Don't you remember anything I said
Sly's head pounded as he took a deep breath before he opened the door. I can do this. I can do this. We'll be ok.
He slowly swung open the door and walked into the apartment. He was surprised to see Emily standing in front of the entrance to the kitchen, her arms crossed over her chest, a cold expression on her face. God, had they called?
Emily took in Sly's every feature: slumped shoulders, tangled hair, red-rimmed glassy eyes. He looked up to her, and she held the eye contact.
Sly felt like he was going to wither under the weight of her stare. He quickly looked down. He wished for invisibility. He hung his keys on the hook on the wall, turning his back to her.
Emily had thought it all through. She was going to approach this from a calm standpoint. She would simply ask why he had alcohol in the apartment. That theory went out the window the minute she opened her mouth. "How could you do this to me?" she asked, her voice taking an accusatory tone.
Sly sighed deeply and put his hand against the wall. So she knew. "I'm sorry, Emily," he said simply.
Emily was momentarily surprised by his response. So he knew what she was talking about. She turned and walked back to the kitchen table by the sliding glass doors. "I found this when I was doing some cleaning today in the hall closet." She motioned to the bottle on the table.
He looked at the vodka on the table. Sly felt a strange mix of emotions- relief that Emily wasn't upset with him for what he thought she was, and guilt that another secret had been exposed. He said nothing, simply walked over by the sliding glass doors in the kitchen and stared out to the street below.
"You don't have anything to say for yourself?" Emily asked.
"Not particularly," Sly said coolly.
"Hmm. 'Not particularly. Not particularly!'" Emily walked over to the table and picked up the bottle. "How could you do this to me, Sly?" She shook the bottle hard, and the liquid bounced up and down in waves.
Sly continued staring out the doors. "Do what to you?"
Emily laughed bitterly. "You don't even know. You don't know what's wrong." She stalked over him. "Look at me when I'm talking to you!"
Sly raised his eyes to her, and he hated that he was causing the anger in them. He was such a screw-up. He glanced down at the vodka bottle. He only had it on hand for emergencies, an anesthetic for the pain. He never meant for her to find it.
When I said
Don't fall away
And leave me to myself
Don't fall away
And leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands again
And leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands
Love lies bleeding
"You brought drugs into my home," she said with a deadly calm, even though her hand was shaking.
Sly looked at her sharply. "I never did that."
"What do you call this?" Emily said, raising the bottle again.
"Ok, so it's alcohol. It's not like I brought hard drugs into the house!" Sly said, already feeling defeated. He knew that was no excuse. Inwardly, he drew further and further away. Just leave me alone, Emily, please, he begged silently.
"How do you think I got started?" she said, her anger and disgust taking over. "I can't believe that you would do this to me, deliberately compromise my recovery."
Sly sighed. "Emily, in case you've forgotten, you're pregnant. You can't drink anyway."
"That is not the point!" She walked over to the sink. "God, you know I'm an addict, but you bring this home regardless."
"You weren't supposed to see it. That's why it was in the closet," Sly admitted.
"So you were trying to hide it from me. So much for honesty and communication." Emily opened the bottle, and then promptly held her nose so she wouldn't have to smell the vodka. She dumped it all out.
Sly watched the alcohol disappear down the drain. There goes twenty bucks. He shook his head; it was probably for the best anyway.
Emily washed out the sink with plenty of hot water. She cursed a tear that was falling down her left cheek. She threw the bottle in the trash beneath the sink. "It's gone," she said, more to herself than to Sly.
Sly hugged his arms to his waist and looked up. There was still another problem to deal with, still so much to say.
Emily observed her husband, and thought of something suddenly. She walked over to Sly. His eyes were red and bloodshot, his appearance disheveled. Emily gasped. "Oh my God, I can't believe that I didn't see it all this time! You're using, aren't you?"
Sly looked at Emily, shocked. "What?"
"What is it, Sly? Alcohol, pot, heroin? Tell me!" Emily said, her voice rising with its intensity.
"Emily, I am not doing drugs! Yes, I drink sometimes, but I'm not addicted like you!" Sly said, throwing his hands into the air.
"Like me? Oh, because you're so much better, so much stronger. You're not like weak, pathetic little Emily," she said, willing herself not to cry.
Oh, hold me now I feel contagious
Am I the only place that you've left to go
She cries her life is like
Some movie black and white
Dead actors faking lines
Over and over and over again she cries
"That's not what I meant, and you know it!" Sly said, and he felt the anger bleeding from the middle of his chest, absorbing throughout his body.
Emily ran a hand through her hair. Finally, she spoke. "I don't think I know anything about you anymore."
Sly shook his head. "How can you say that, Emily, after everything we've been through?"
"Because you've changed, Sly! You're different. Ever since we got married, you've been pulling away from me. You're secretive, and quiet, and you won't talk to me anymore. What happened to the man I fell in love with, the one who was confident and funny and charming, the one who I willingly gave up everything for?" Emily asked, unsure of what Sly's response would be.
Sly didn't say anything at first. His eyes focused on a spot on the small balcony. She wants the truth, he thought. He hung his head as he whispered. "He's dead, Emily."
Don't fall away
And leave me to myself
Don't fall away
And leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands again
And leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands
Love lies bleeding
Emily gasped. "What do you mean, he's dead? Sly, you're scaring me."
Sly tried to look in her eyes, but found himself darting his eyes away anyway. "He's gone. I don't know how to be that person anymore. Now I'm just trying to be your husband."
"Who says that you have to be different to be my husband?" Emily asked, perplexed.
"I do!" Sly shouted. "I can't be the same person I used to be. I have to change before it's too late."
Too late, Emily thought. What does that mean?
"I don't know why you're fighting me. Aren't I playing my part?" Sly said, a hint of bitterness creeping through.
And I wanted
You turned away
You don't remember
But I do
You never even tried
"Your part?" Emily asked. "Is that all our marriage is to you, a play, a game?"
"Look, Emily, I love you, but this situation, it's hard. I hate being Mr. and Mrs. Teenage Pregnancy," he spit out.
Emily sighed. "I know it's not the ideal situation, but we're having a child regardless. We can still find some joy in that. Doesn't that make you the least bit happy?"
"No, Emily, I'm not happy. Maybe it's because I never wanted this child in the first place!" he exploded, the words coming out in a rush, bypassing all filters in his mind.
Emily gasped, her hands flying instinctively to her stomach, to her child. "Say you didn't mean it!" she cried.
Sly was ashamed by his thoughts, but they were honest. "I can't."
Emily grabbed onto him, shaking him. "You bastard! Say you didn't mean it!"
"Damn it, Emily, stop it!" Sly tried to back away from her, but she still held onto his right hand.
If you hurt my child, you hurt me, she thought. In a wild rage, she went for the lowest blow she could think of. "Why, Sly? Maybe you don't listen unless someone smacks you around. Maybe your grandfather had the right idea!"
Sly winced and jerked his hand away from her, and raised it in the air. Emily was frozen. Was he going to hit her?
The next few seconds felt like hours. Sly crumbled internally. How could she say that? An instinct took over. She hurt you, hurt her back. Sly felt himself raising his arm. Hurt her back.
Suddenly, Sly realized what he was doing. For a split second, he could see himself getting ready to hit Emily, and she was preparing herself for the blow. The realization hit him like a lightning bolt.
Sly's hand formed a fist, but instead of hitting Emily, he aimed his hand at the sliding glass door.
Emily screamed when she saw Sly's hand go straight through the door, shattering the glass.
Sly pulled back his hand and arm, which were covered in long crimson cuts. You bastard, he thought. You were going to hit her! You're no better than your grandfather. Sly began to cry, but he was feeling no pain physically. He brought his hand back and punched the glass again.
"Stop, Sly!" Emily cried, trying to pull him away, but he was impossible to move. "Don't do this!"
Sly barely heard her. He focused on punching the glass, over and over, making a giant hole in the door. His arm caught on the jagged edges, tearing his flesh, and more and more blood starting dripping from it. Glass rained down, and he caught some of it. He gripped it, driving it in his hand, deeper and deeper into the tissue. You deserve this. You deserve to be punished, he thought to himself. You don't deserve to live.
Finally, a strangled sob escaped his lips as he stopped hitting the glass. A wave of pain suddenly hit him, and the world began growing dim. He turned to Emily.
Emily was scared out of her mind, but it seemed like he stopped hitting the glass. He turned to her, and Emily had never seen the look in Sly's eyes before. It was complete, unabashed self-hatred. "I'm sorry," he whispered, then his eyes closed and he passed out, falling to the floor.
"Sly!" Emily sank to her knees as she looked at Sly's right hand and arm, which were covered with blood. It was all over the remains of the sliding glass door and was quickly pooling on the floor where his arm rested.
Thinking fast, she got up and grabbed the cordless phone and some dishrags that were in the kitchen. She got down on her knees and pressed one of the dishrags onto the wounds on his hand and arm. The blood seeped through immediately, so she put another one on as she dialed 911 with a shaking hand.
The operator picked up quickly. "911, state your emergency."
"My husband has injured himself. His hand went through a sliding glass door," Emily said, her voice rising in alarm.
"Where are you located?" the dispatcher asked.
"455 Bronson Lane, Apartment 2B." Emily looked down and saw the second dishtowel was soaked with Sly's blood. "Please hurry, there's a lot of blood and he's unconscious," she sobbed.
"Have you applied pressure to the wounds with a cloth or your hands?"
"Yes, I've been pressing down on his arm with dishtowels, but the blood keeps seeping through." She couldn't believe how much blood there was. "Sly, hang on," she cried.
"Ma'am, I need you to stay calm. I want you to apply pressure with your fingers held flat against the arterial pressure point that is closest to the wound, between it and the heart. That would be near the crook of the elbow. Try to squeeze it against the bone. Keep your other hand on the actual wounds."
Emily followed the dispatcher's instructions, and eventually, it seemed like the bleeding was slowing somewhat. "It's slowing down," she said into the phone.
"Is the victim on the floor?"
"Yes," she said tearfully.
"I want you to raise his feet about 12 inches; put them up on a chair. Then cover him with a blanket."
Emily dutifully followed the dispatcher's instructions. She put his feet up on a kitchen chair, and then grabbed a blanket she kept on the couch. She struggled to do this quickly, but it was hard to do anything fast when one was eight months pregnant.
"Ok, I did it," Emily said breathlessly.
"What's your name ma'am?"
"Emily Eckert, and my husband's name is Sly Eckert." Emily looked down at his face, so still and so pale. Sly, why did you do this, she thought. Why?
Just then, the sounds of sirens filled the air. "They're coming, they're coming," she said to the dispatcher. She let the phone fall from where she was cradling it between her face and her shoulder. She heard commotion outside in the hall, and she knew the paramedics were there. "Please hurry," she whispered as she looked down at Sly. "Sly, you've got to listen to me. You've got to make it through this. Our baby needs her father." She stooped down lower and kissed him on the cheek. Tears streamed down her face. "And I need you, too." She still felt his blood running through her fingers, and she prayed that it wasn't too late.
Don't fall away
And leave me to myself
Don't fall away
And leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands again
Leave love bleeding in my hands
In my hands
"Hemorrhage (In My Hands)" Written by C. Bell. Performed by Fuel on their album, Something Like Human.