2 Rachel.

The next morning, I woke up early. Six thirty. It was a Sunday so I had the day to myself, but I didn't feel like sleeping any longer. Oh well, I had gone to bed early the night before.

I moved as silently as possible as to not wake my brother, but when I reached my strategic spying corner, the first thing I saw was him sitting on the kitchen table, his clean shiny blond hair falling in waves over his shoulders, a cigarette sticking out of his mouth. My throat reacted immediately, stinging and itching painfully. I hated the smell of cigarettes.

"Not in the house!" I squeaked, making him jump. Before he could react, I grabbed the cigarette between my thumb and my index and dropped it on the floor before crushing it with my slipper.

He opened his mouth in shock and stared at me. I expected an apology or some stupid joke about me not being able to stop him from doing what he wants, but all I got was, "Fine." His voice was cold, so was his expression.

I frowned in suspicion. "Everything OK?"

"Yeah, sure. Everything's perfectly fine." The sarcasm was almost as slap in the face. He didn't even bother to look at me.

"Um, hey, you know I could kick you out of here anytime, so how 'bout you lose the attitude."

"You know what?" He turned to me again and got down from the table, only to stretch his legs and emphasize the few inches he outgrew me by. "Go ahead." And he walked past me and straight to the front door that he slammed behind him.

"But I didn't say anything…" I muttered silently to the wall in front of me. "Bert…" Of course, it was useless. He was furiously walking away from me now, and for what? I had no idea. I thought we'd left off at a pretty friendly note last night, so why did he suddenly hate me?

Nah, he didn't hate me, he was just going outside for a smoke, that was all.

No. That wasn't true. Even if he would smoke—definitely would happen—he wouldn't just be gone for five minutes. Oh no, he wouldn't be back too soon. Suddenly, I was scared to lose him again.

I felt the loneliness weight on me like it did too often these days. The walls closing in. That strange shadow of claustrophobia coming back. Suddenly, I felt like curling up in a ball and yelling until my already painful throat disallowed me to. But I knew it was bad, and that the neighbors had already complained about it in the past and that I could up get kicked out of the apartment. No, I needed my other remedy. The healthier one.

I just hoped he wouldn't be angry too.

I half jumped on my phone and dialed the number I knew by heart with a determined rage. He answered in a sleepy voice after only two rings.

"Hello?"

"Quinn?" I gasped.

"Nope, it's the Wizard of Oz. Went into epileptic shock again, Rachel?"

I smiled. Gosh, I had missed him. "I'm not an epileptic, Quinn."

"Oh, yeah? What was it then? You're bipolar? Amnesic? Addicted to cheese puffs?"

I chuckled. "Definitely the last one. But the two others wouldn't be impossible either…"

There was a momentary silence, and he finally said, "OK Chelly, you didn't wake me up at six in the morning to tell me you're crazy. I hope. What's wrong?"

I sighed. "My brother's here."

"Which one?" he immediately asked.

"The fugitive. Robert."

"Oh, the crazy crack kid who looks like Kurt Cobain?"

I couldn't have described him better. "Yeah. Him."

"What does he want?"

"Apparently, some bloodthirsty drug-dealer's after him and his girlfriend and he's freaking out. Oh, and he's totally homeless."

"Really? The dude has a girlfriend? She's probably blind."

I laughed out loud this time. I didn't feel like defending my brother even for a second. "No doubt! But what about the dealer?"

"Aw, don't worry. Whatever he did, I'm sure it's no biggie. He's just using that as an excuse for invading your home. He probably didn't even do anything and it's all just a big lie." I stopped agreeing with him there. I had seen my brother's face the night before—when he wasn't an asshole—and it had been honest. He was really scared. But I didn't say anything. "So, I don't suppose you're gonna let me get some more sleep, eh?" Quinn guessed.

"Sorry. You're my slave now."

"It's alright… I guess I'll survive…" The overdone martyrdom in his voice made me smile again. Everything about him made me smile. "Even if I have a huge gig tonight," he continued, "I'm sure I won't pass out on the stage due to my significant lack of sleep…"

"Aw, now you're making me feel bad." Total lie.

"Hey, I'm just kidding. You know I love it when you call me in the middle of the night, because even if I'm having the sweetest dream, the sound of your voice is always sweeter…"

I felt my fingers weaken. Quinn wasn't at all my boyfriend, but sometimes I felt like he surpassed his role as a best friend with little comments or gestures just like that. Like the roses that had magically appeared in front of my door every day for a whole month and which he had "accidentally" mentioned once, thus giving himself away. And to think that he probably traveled fifty miles from Orem to lay each rose right on that spot, just because the mailbox sucked too much—unless he'd talked the mailman into doing it.

But why? Was he in love with me? Or was he just playing with me? Maybe he was undecided, like I was. But why didn't he ever talk to me about it, seriously?

We talked about everything and nothing for the next couple of hours, barely mentioning either love or Bert, which was probably good for me. He helped me clear my mind and see the good side of life, smile. Really, I couldn't imagine any drug that could be better than him. We talked about his band—his only occupation apart from his day-job at Starbucks—and the messy new songs they'd finally managed to coordinate as well as their terrible singer.

"Really, sometimes I just wanna hit him in the face with my guitar. But then I think, "What would we do without him?" A band with no frontman is like a P&J sandwich with no bread. Nobody wants to eat peanut butter and jelly on spoons."

"Are you kidding? I always do that."

"Yeah but, Chelly, you're weird. We've already figured that out." I rolled my eyes, even though he couldn't see me. "Anyway, it's almost nine now, if you haven't noticed." No, I hadn't noticed. Time seemed to sprint whenever I talked to Quinn. "I have to get to work."

"On a Sunday?"

"People still need coffee. Sorry." It was a sincere apology.

"Please. You have nothing to be sorry about. Thank you for not hanging up on me."

"What? How could I ever do that? Chelly, I'd be too scared your OCD would get the best of you."

"I don't have… ugh. Do you even know what OCD means?"

"Of course I do! I gotta go now though, so… bye."

"Bye. Take care." Click. And just like that, he was gone again. I felt my throat tighten, but apart from that I was OK. Maybe he was right. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe we were all just a bunch of crazies in my family.

And then I heard the door open noisily. And suddenly, I felt annoyed. Not relieved, not sorry, but very annoyed. How could he dare walk away like that and then come back like he was the king of the house? He could've at least knocked.

I walked furiously to the entrance to face him and started, "Seriously, Bert—"

"Rachel!" he interrupted in a trembling voice. He looked surprised, like he hadn't expected me to be there. And he looked… terrified. My annoyance vanished. "Rachel, oh God!" He seemed to remember the door and turned to close it quickly before locking both bolts with a disturbing vigor. And then he leaned against it and slowly slid down to a sitting position, taking his head between his stiff hands—blocking his ears. "Make them go away please! Please… Please just make them go away…" His voice lost its volume with each word. "Please, please, please, oh God, please…" He muttered on almost inaudibly while I stared in horror. His words merged into a soft whine as he squeezed his eyes shut and started rocking himself back and forth rapidly.

I scanned him quickly in order to try to figure out what exactly had happened to him, but everything was intact. The oversized joggings and the old gray sweatshirt I had found for him looked fine, so did the rest of him—even those ugly old fingerless gloves that hid his hands. He looked fine, physically. But mentally was a whole other story.

The whining became louder and the rocking more violent. The terrible sounds that escaped his lips, full of fear and pain, chilled me to the bone. Louder and louder. Pretty soon, I couldn't take it anymore. It was like he was yelling in my ears. It was too much!

"Stop! Stop, goddam it!" I snapped. "Bert, look at me!" I crouched next to him and grabbed both his wrists that I pulled away from his head, forcing him to unblock his ears. He stared at me, startled.

And in the silence, I suddenly understood. Why he'd been so angry in the morning, why he was acting like this now. It was truly frightening to see how much effect it had but there was no doubt. It was the drugs. The craving was driving him crazy. I realised sadly that this feeling was probably familiar to him. How many times had he run out of money? How many times had he fallen under the grip of the terrible need for the little white powder?

And then, out of nowhere, I thought of my other little brother, Joey, who still lived with our parents. He looked a lot like Bert—or anyway, Bert before, when he still had glasses and a nerdy haircut—and every time I looked at him I felt nostalgic. He was happy, at least. I hoped it would last. I hoped the only resemblance between him and Bert was physical. And deep down I knew I had nothing to worry about. Joey was a good boy. He would never end up in the streets, homeless, cold, alone. His face would never twist under the pain of addiction, of terror and loneliness, of hunger and despair. And he would never need me.

"Hey," I whispered as softly as possible. "It's OK, there's no one here. Just me. Just me." Slowly, his hands loosened, his face relaxed, his pupils contracted. He closed his eyes and sighed almost in relief, like he'd just overcome a great challenge. It must've felt like that.

And then, without moving, he whispered, "I saw him Rachel. I saw him with my own eyes."

It took me a few seconds to focus on his words. "You saw… who?"

"Him!" His eyes opened wide with apprehension. Their electric blue caught my attention once again. "The dealer! The only guy who's ever given me the creeps, who else?"

"Alright, alright." I almost felt annoyed again before remembering that there was a good reason for his abruptness. "Are you sure it was him?"

"Yes, yes! He—he looked at me." I raised my eyebrows. "He saw me. Definitely. Just as I saw him. And he… told me that—that he was gonna…" His eyes lost their focus then and he stared into nothing.

"What? He was gonna what?" I urged.

His eyes focused on me again and he groaned in frustration. "I'm not sure… It was… It was terrible. He wants revenge. He wants to kill me! And Kate too!" And suddenly it was he who grabbed my wrists, gripping so tightly it hurt. "He's a maniac, Rachel! He's fucking crazy!"

I felt a bit of his fear then. Maybe this guy really was a menace. Maybe I really should be worried about him…

But no. Something wasn't right. Just by the way he looked at me, the way he talked about that guy, it was like he was describing himself. Mostly the "fucking crazy" part. In that moment my brother really looked fucking crazy. Paranoid. I let out a short gasp.

It was all in his head.

I clicked my tongue and slowly said, "Listen, that wasn't real. You imagined that—"

"No!" He frowned. "No, no! It was real! He was there, I swear!"

"No, Bert. He wasn't." I got back up slowly and he let his hands fall back in his lap. "Sorry." And I left without looking back. I couldn't anymore. I couldn't help him. I went straight to my room, opened a book and tried to relax, to forget. As much as I could.

The phone pulled me out of my concentration a few hours later. That concentration I had worked so hard on mastering…

"Hello?" I growled, determined to show whoever had bothered me that I did not want to be bothered.

"Hey, Chelly. You sound bummed."

"Quinn!" My voice lost all trace of animosity. "Man, you'll never guess what happened this morning."

"You won the lottery and now you're bathing under the sun in the Philippines?"

"Huh? No! I wish. No, actually it's a bad thing."

"Aw, darn. Well, I have good news, if you want to feel better."

"You bet I do. C'mon, tell me before I burst into tears. And it better be actual good news this time, Quinn, so don't talk to me about how you just had the best burger in your life."

He laughed. "Hey, I really believe that's great news! But, um, no, this time it's justified." He paused. I waited. "I love the suspense." I gasped and yelled at him to tell me, and he chuckled until finally, I very suddenly burst into tears. Real tears of sadness, something that he wasn't expecting. He stopped laughing and I could picture his face becoming grave. "Hey, Chelly, you alright?"

"No. I mean, yes! Ugh… I just…" I blabbered excuses through my uncontrolled tears, underlined by loud sobs. Really, the first thing I would do after putting down this phone would be going to a mental hospital. It wasn't normal to act like someone had died at any random moment.

"Alright, alright! Don't cry!" Quinn urged in a panicky voice. "Sheesh. The good news is just that we're playing a gig tonight in Salt Lake, and I thought you'd like to come. You know, it's a rare opportunity to play in the big city, so close to you…"

"Yeah, I know, I know." I sighed and calmed down a little. It really was good news. I smiled. "Count me in." I sounded strangled. "Where and when?"

He gave me the time and coordinates while I slowly comprehended how good his news was. I would finally be able to see him again, my best friend! It had been weeks since I hadn't touched him, talked to him face to face or seen his adorable smile. And suddenly, I felt happy.

"Quinn…" I interrupted, only then realising that he was still talking.

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for existing."

He let out a brisk laugh and answered unsurely, "You're welcome, I guess."

There followed one of those awkward silences while we both cleared our throats and finally, he muttered a sad goodbye and hung up before I could answer. I didn't care though. Because tonight at eight, I would finally be able to give him a good hug once again.

I realised then that I hadn't told him my bad news, which finally reminded me that I had to get out of my room—aka "secret hideout"—before my brother ended up hanging himself.

As soon as I opened the door, I almost jumped. Because everything was blurry, the air was full of something thick and white… Of course.

"Do you plan on suffocating every person in this building!" I yelled while my throat tightened with pain. I walked through the smoke up to the living room, wondering how the hell I hadn't smelled it from my room. When I reached the living room, I couldn't keep from gasping again—which only made me cough—because I barely recognised the place. Everything had been pushed off the shelves and the coffee table, all the furniture—as little as there was—had been moved and there were red beads all over the floor. From that vase full of glass beads my aunt had given me on my birthday—probably to get rid of it—and which I had not found a better place for except the top shelf of the library. I guessed the vase was doomed.

And there, right in the middle of that mess, sat my brother, cross legged. As if nothing had happened. Smoking. "Hey, Roach," he greeted without a glance toward me.

My fists clenched. I tried taking a deep breath to calm myself down, but when my lungs protested and I coughed again, I didn't feel at all calmer. I took a few steps and stood right in front of him, placing my hands on my hips. He looked up innocently. "OK, you filthy little brat," I started, "what the fuck do you think you're doing? So what, now that you're a cocaine addict you think you can just walk in here and take the walls down!" The last word was practically a screech.

He waited patiently to see if I was done and answered in an outrageous calm, "I was angry. I had to let off some steam." He took a long puff of his cigarette before looking back at me expectantly.

I stared at him in disbelief. "By destroying everything? You could've at least spared the vase with the beads, now Aunt Molly will be angry!"

"Who cares? She's crazy anyway." He took another puff. "Aren't we all?"

I blinked. "Wow, you took the words right out of my mouth." And then I remembered that I was supposed to be angry. I frowned and continued more severely, "But that's not an excuse for this! What am I gonna do now!" His cigarette annoyed me, as well as his apathy. "Will you just…" I bent over and grabbed the little white tube like I had that morning, but this time he grabbed it too, holding on to it. I yanked at it and suddenly it broke between my fingers, burning so fast that I didn't have time to think about letting go before the little flame reached my fingers. I yelped and my fingers opened on their own, but the pain lasted and I groaned. "Now look what you've done!"

"Hey, I didn't do anything. You're the one who—"

"Shut up!" The neighbors were sure to have heard me. "Shut up and get out of here! Now! And don't come back!" The anger boiled up to the point where I felt like hitting him. Hard enough that he'd remember. I controlled myself though.

Slowly, like he was determined to annoy me as much as possible, he got up and walked up to the front door. Only then did a hint of regret show on his face, but I didn't care anymore. "I'm sorry, Roach," he said flatly.

I didn't feel the sorrow, to be honest. "Get out."

He didn't add anything. Three seconds later, I was alone. Just me, the pain in my fingers, the thick smoke, and a hell of a mess to clean up.