TITLE: The Quality of Darkness
SPOILERS: Anything from the series is fair game.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Drake & Josh. All are owned by Dan Schneider, et al. I am not profiting in any way except creatively.
A/N: Follow the breadcrumbs... Enjoy!
Chapter 15: Shades of Truth
The knob clicks loudly as he turns it, the sound bouncing off the bare walls and cement floor of the laundry room. It is Friday evening and Josh is trying to keep busy, trying to keep the significance of the day at bay. His fingers linger on the knob of the washing machine, his eyes staring at the words around it without comprehension. Regular or permanent press? He isn't sure, so he chooses regular. Regular is good. Regular is great.
Bending to the basket of dirty clothes, he grabs a shirt from the top of the pile, shakes it out, then drops it into the empty basin. He grabs another, repeating the procedure. He does this by rote, not even thinking, checking pockets for loose change or other objects. The last piece of laundry at the bottom of the pile is a pair of his jeans and he bends to pick them up. He slides his fingers into the back pockets, then into the left hip pocket. Empty. But when he slips his hand into the right hip pocket, his fingers hit something hard. Securing his fingers around it and pulling it out, he discovers what it is – Drake's phone.
He stares at it, memories flashing across his mind like shooting stars – memories he'd rather forget. His fingers close around the object tightly for a moment before he manages to shove the thing in his pocket, focusing his attention once again on his task as he drops the jeans into the machine. Pulling the knob out, he hears the water splash into the basin. After several seconds, the steam starts to rise like a cloud of humidity; he can feel it on his face as he stares down into it. Reaching for the soap, he untwists the cap and pours the viscous blue liquid carefully, squeezing the cap tightly to calm the sudden trembling in his fingers. He dumps the detergent over the clothes as the water rises around them and then closes the lid with a gentle click.
Turning from the washer, he walks out of the laundry room and back into the house, heading towards the kitchen. When he pushes through the swinging door, he sees Megan sitting at the table, staring at a carton of chocolate milk that she's gripping in her hands. She doesn't look up.
"Hey, Megs," he says softly.
"Hey." She's concentrating hard on the carton, like it's going to do a trick.
Josh studies her for a moment before asking carefully, "Whatcha doin'?"
It takes a moment for her to answer, then she shrugs and says, "I was just wondering something."
"What's that?" He takes a step towards her, rests his hands along the back of the empty chair across from her.
She finally looks up at him, her dark eyes meeting his across the table. "I was just wondering if Drake drank out of this carton."
Josh's fingers seize around the chair.
"It's just that, you know," she continues slowly, "he might've. He did…does that all the time. And I was thinking…" She stops, taking a breath. "I was thinking that maybe he drank some right before…" She turns away, looking back down at the carton again.
Josh just watches her, not knowing what to say. He sees her run her fingers along the sides of the carton, then wipe them on her purple sleep pants. He swallows past a growing lump in his throat and says, "I don't know, Megs. Does it matter?"
She shakes her head slowly. "I guess not." Looking at him again, she adds, shrugging, "I was just wondering."
Another silent moment passes before Josh decides that a change of subject is needed. "You hungry?" he asks with as much enthusiasm as he can muster.
She shrugs again. "A little."
Josh knows that 'a little' really means 'not really', but he needs to keep busy and they need to eat despite everything, so he walks to the refrigerator and opens it, ducking his head inside. "Let's see," he says, his voice muffled by the fridge. His eyes scan the contents – week-old tuna casserole, some old pizza with a dubious provenance, a half-full container of cottage cheese, and a few slices of sandwich cheese. Frowning over the selection, he reaches for the cheese and emerges from the fridge. "How about…" he says, walking over to the microwave and opening it up, grabbing the bread and looking it over, checking for mold. There are no visible signs. He turns to face his sister. "…grilled cheese sandwiches?"
Megan stands, picking the milk up off the table and placing it back in the refrigerator. "Whatever," she says indifferently.
"Or I could call Mom and Dad and ask them to pick up something on their way home," he offers. Their parents are still at the hospital, meeting with Drake's doctor. There is a chance that Drake may be able to come home next week since he's healing well and has shown no signs of wanting to tear his stitches out again. Josh isn't sure Drake is ready but no one asked him and so he keeps his opinions to himself.
"Don't bother them, Josh," Megan replies. "Grilled cheese is fine." She heads towards the door. "I'll be in the living room." Then she disappears.
Josh stares after her for a long moment, at a loss. He's never seen Megan so listless before, even when she's sick. An unexpected current of anger courses through him, so strong that it makes him tremble. It's all Drake's fault, he thinks. Drake did this to her. To them. He's always been so goddamn selfish.
But then the sight of his brother lying lifeless in the tub explodes across his brain, eclipsing everything else, and a wave of guilt washes over him. Not selfish, he thinks. Shattered.
Josh is trapped between two emotions he cannot escape from and he feels like he can't breathe. He doesn't want to think about it anymore, but it's like having a sunburn and then trying to pretend that the sun doesn't exist.
He busies himself with making dinner - getting out the frying pan and turning on the burner; buttering four slices of bread, carefully laying two pieces butter-side down in the pan and hearing the soft sizzle as the cold butter meets the warm pan; unwrapping the cheese slices and layering them evenly on the two pieces of bread; and finishing the process by placing the other two pieces of bread on top of each sandwich. Five minutes later, he scoops the sandwiches onto two plates, the melted cheese oozing out of the sides.
When he walks into the living room, he finds Megan squished into one corner of the couch, her legs curled underneath her. She's holding a throw pillow against her stomach as she stares at the television.
"Sandwiches are ready," Josh says softly, holding her plate out to her.
She turns her head, acknowledging him, then reaches for the plate. "Thanks," she mutters as she balances the plate on the pillow and turns her eyes back to the television.
Josh sinks into the cushions on the other end of the couch, resting his plate on his thigh. He lifts his sandwich to his lips, but when he sees what Megan's watching, he stops short.
"Turn that off," he says through his teeth, staring at the television. His hands drift back to his plate. He suddenly feels cold.
She's watching a video compilation of several of Drake's gigs with the sound off. Josh had had the DVD made for their brother last Christmas from the many VHS tapes that had been piling up in their room. The last time Josh had seen it, Drake had been watching it upstairs in their room.
"I'm watching it," she says, her voice small. She tears off a small piece of her sandwich and puts it in her mouth, not taking her eyes from the screen.
Josh sets his plate on the end table next to the couch. He no longer feels hungry. "I said," he says slowly, "turn it off."
Megan looks at him, a spark of her old defiance in her eyes. "No," she says. "If you don't want to watch it, then go upstairs." And she turns once again to the television.
Josh gets up, white-hot anger propelling him, and takes the few steps around the coffee table to the television, turning it off. He stands in front of the darkened screen, his hands balled into loose fists, and glares at his little sister. "Where did you get it?" he asks icily.
The fire is gone from her gaze and he can see her sink further into the cushions. "I –" she begins and the sound is barely audible.
"How many times have we told you to stay out of our room, huh? How many?" he screams at her. And he knows it's not fair, but he can't stop.
"I'm sorry," she whispers and even from several feet away, Josh can see the tears welling in her eyes. "I just wanted…" But she doesn't finish. Instead, she pushes the pillow off her lap and onto the floor, plate and all, and runs upstairs.
Josh watches her go, his anger slowly dissolving away until the adrenaline that fueled it gives way to a hollowness in his bones that makes his knees weak. He reaches blindly for the coffee table, collapsing onto it, burying his face in his hands.
The washing machine buzzes faintly in the distance.
When he knocks softly on her door nearly an hour later – after transferring the laundry to the dryer and popping in another load, cleaning up after their disastrous dinner, and mopping the kitchen floor for the fifth time that week – there is no response from the other side.
Knocking again, he offers a tentative, "Megan?"
No answer.
A sudden, inexplicable fear grips him, seizing his breath, and he reaches a trembling hand to the doorknob and pushes it open. He lets his breath out in a rush when he sees her in bed sleeping, her face turned towards him. The lamp next to her bed is on and he can see that her skin looks blotchy; she's been crying.
He wants to apologize but he doesn't want to wake her. Walking into the room, he gently pulls the covers up to her shoulder and switches of the lamp. Brushing her hair carefully away from her face, he looks at her for a long moment in the dim light from the hallway before turning to leave, closing the door softly behind him.
He's taken to showering and brushing his teeth in his parents' bathroom. But since he's already in his pajamas – has been since he got home from school – he forgoes the shower and just brushes his teeth before heading for his bedroom.
It's still a mess; it's the one room in the house that he hasn't cleaned in the last week. Clothes and shoes cover the floor and the sheets on both beds are crumpled. He looks at the clock – it's still early, not even eight-thirty.
Fatigue pulls at him. He can sleep but he can't rest. He can't seem to get comfortable, can't keep his thoughts from wandering into the dark places. But he's got nothing left to do but to keep trying and so he lies down on his bed and closes his eyes, hoping that tonight is the night that he can block it all out and finally get some rest.
But it's not likely.
Shifting restlessly onto his right side, he feels something hard cutting into his thigh, then suddenly remembers what it is. Sitting up, he pulls Drake's cell phone from his pocket and holds it tightly in his hand. In the moonlit room, he flips it open.
Nothing – no light, no sound. The battery is worn down.
Throwing his feet over the side of the bed, he reaches for the lamp next to his bed and flips it on. A small cone of soft yellow light illuminates the area around him and casts an eerie pallor over the rest of the room as the intensity of the light fades across the distance. Standing, he steps down into the room and over to the computer desk, searching for Drake's phone charger. He finds it buried underneath a pile of handwritten sheet music and half-finished lyrics.
Walking back to his bed, he plugs the charger into the outlet nearest him and inserts the other end into the phone. The little phone comes to life after a second, buzzing against his palm as the light from the LCD screen emanates from inside. Josh goes to set the phone on the nightstand but changes his mind, flipping it open instead.
"Phone is off. Phone is charging," the screen tells him as the little battery icon in the upper right-hand corner fills up one bar at a time, then empties, then fills again.
Josh presses the red POWER button with his thumb and after a few seconds, the phone chirps and turns on completely.
"DRAKE." His brother's name is prominently displayed on the little screen, emblazoned over a blue background. A few more seconds pass before a notification pops up on the screen that says there are new text messages waiting in the inbox.
Josh opens the inbox, curiosity fueling his actions. There are 42 text messages, all unread, and as Josh scrolls through the list, two things strike him – nearly half of them are from the last week, and almost all of them are from Ginger.
Ginger. Drake's mystery girl. That's odd, Josh thinks. He didn't know Drake still corresponded with her; he hadn't mentioned her since she stood him up at The Premiere back in February.
He opens the most recent one, dated yesterday afternoon.
"pls forgive me"
A sense of foreboding creeps up Josh's spine. He closes it, opens the next one.
"im sorry"
His hands are trembling now as he scrolls through them, his eyes scanning each one as his mouth goes dry. Something isn't right, he thinks. The timing; it's wrong.
"i never meant 2 hurt u"
"its all my fault"
More of the same – message after message of guilt-ridden words. A half-dozen im sorrys and two more pls forgive mes.
He got to his message, the one he had left for Drake a week ago. He skipped past it, opening another message from Ginger.
"y wont u talk 2 me?"
This one was dated last Thursday night. Josh's heart thudded heavily against his ribs.
He scrolled to the next one. "how many times do i have 2 say im sorry?"
And the next one. "i miss u"
"y r u avoiding me?"
"pls talk 2 me"
"im sorry" It seems to be a running theme.
There are a few from people Josh recognizes – one from Scotty, two from Trevor, another one from Josh himself. But the rest are from Ginger and they're more of the same – beseeching entreaties and pleas for contact.
There's one that makes Josh's breath catch in his throat.
"i need u" It's dated over two weeks ago.
It's the last one in the inbox.
It's just a text message, but there is an urgency, an immediacy to it that makes Josh feel unsettled. The interaction between Drake and Ginger had obviously gone way beyond playful and had morphed into something more serious.
But what bothers Josh the most is the fact that Drake never mentioned it.
He switches to Drake's voicemail, punching in the passcode and pressing the button to activate the speakerphone. There are 32 new voicemails and he presses "1" to begin playing them. He hopes that somewhere in there, he'll hear Ginger's voice.
The first message is from over two weeks ago.
"Hey, bro. It's me. You've got the car and Mom –" Josh saves it, moves on to the next one.
"Hey, Drake. It's Devon. I was wondering if you could –"
Next one. "Yo, Drake. Trevor. I've got an extra ticket –"
There are a half-dozen more like them from friends that Josh knows. But then one catches his attention. It's dated the Sunday before Drake's suicide attempt.
"Hi, Drake. This is Maddie. I just wanted to say…(shaky breath)…I'm okay. Really. And I'm not mad. I just want you know that."
Her voice sounds brittle and Josh's mind flashes on the shy girl from school who approached him at lunch. The one who said she thought Drake was avoiding her.
Her words from a week ago echo through his head.
"I've been leaving your brother messages since last week, but he hasn't returned my calls."
Another one from Maddie, dated the same day, but later. "Drake. It's Maddie again. Please call me, okay? I need to talk to you."
"I'm not upset about what happened."
Could Maddie be Ginger? Josh wonders. Maybe. But something tells him she's not.
Another one, dated the next day, Monday. "Drake, I didn't see you in school today. I hope you're not avoiding me. I'm okay, really. You didn't hurt me…"
Josh doesn't hear the rest. The words resonate inside his skull.
"I know he didn't mean it. And I'm not gonna tell anyone."
"Drake…" he whispers, clutching the phone in his fingers, staring at it like it's going to answer back. "What happened?"
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