The knocking had been going on for days it seemed, and it played like a soundtrack in the back of his mind until it hit him that he wasn't dreaming it. Drake opened his eyes and found himself on the bathroom floor. He pushed himself up, resting his back against the tub, then looked down at himself. His belt was still tied around his bicep, and the syringe was still poking out of his arm. He pulled it out.
"Open the fucking door before I break it down!" his dad was yelling. "Drake?!"
"Yeah?"
"What the hell are you doing in there?"
The shower was on. He could feel tiny droplets hit the back of his neck. "Showering."
"Your sister said you've been in there for an hour. She needs to use the bathroom."
"Uh...okay. Just a sec." He removed the belt, then left it lying next to the toilet. That's not that weird, right? He was wearing sweatpants — he had been for days — so he'd have to leave the belt behind and hope his dad wouldn't notice the discrepancy. Maybe he was overthinking things. He stood and stuck his head underneath the running water to wet his hair.
"Hurry up, Drake. She has to go."
"Yes, sir." He put the syringe away in its tin box, then hid his kit in his boxers. He checked his reflection and stuck his hand in his underwear to reposition the box, making sure it was snug and unnoticeable, then he turned off the water. Finally, he opened the door.
"Christ, you're dripping water everywhere."
"Sorry." Drake grabbed a towel and started in on his hair while Megan pushed past him in a hurry and shoved him the rest of the way out before shutting the door.
"What the hell's going on? I get home from work, and she says you've been ignoring her."
"I couldn't hear over the water," Drake said.
"Why the hell were you in there for so long? You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her."
"I just needed space," then, to get out of trouble, he added, "to cry. I didn't want her to see me upset."
Winston sighed, then placed his hand on Drake's shoulder and gave him a supportive squeeze. "It's nearly been a week since the last murders."
Drake felt guilty that he'd heard the tragic attack four nights ago but mistook it for another lovers' quarrel. The lady had yelled for help, but last time he'd stepped in when that had happened, she'd started shoving and hitting him, demanding he mind his own business. How was he supposed to know that this time she meant it?
"Maybe it's over," his father said.
"It's not over," he said. "This is what the killer wants. He wants me to wait and anticipate his next murder. He wants me to be on edge at all times until I make myself sick."
"Maybe you're wrong."
"Why would he kill the neighbors just to stop there? He wants me to know that he could get to me whenever he wants. It started at work, then the convenience store, the laundromat, and now here."
Megan exited the bathroom then, listening in on their conversation. Drake knew he should stop talking like he was — she was just a kid, and it would only freak her out — but he couldn't help it.
"He's getting closer every time," Drake continued. "This is just the beginning. This is when he starts hitting me where it hurts."
"Why don't we take another look at the suspect wall?" Winston said, gesturing to the pinned photos behind him. "Maybe we can figure it out—"
"If I couldn't figure out it was my own brother, how am I ever supposed to guess who the killer is now?"
The man clutched his arm and urgently pulled him over to the suspect map. "Maybe it's one of these revenge people. That would make sense, right?"
Drake rolled his eyes. "I find it hard to believe that Trevor's mom or Mindy could do all this."
"That's such a boy thing to say," Megan chimed in with a roll of her eyes.
Drake kept going. "Hal's just some brainless jock. Huntley was the leader in their group, and without him, he's lost. And Huntley's dad — well, if it's him, we're all fucked because he's a cop."
His father glared at him before motioning his eyes towards Megan, warning him to stop scaring her. Maybe she should be scared. Maybe they all should. Sooner or later, Ghostface was coming for them all.
"Okay, maybe it's not them," Winston said. "Who else?"
Quietly, the boy said, "Maybe Josh isn't dead." He was believing this theory more and more everyday. "Look what happened at the Premiere." He hadn't told them, but word — and the invasive video — quickly spread around Woodsboro, and of course Vance was quick to bring the discussion to YouTube.
"Drake, you're losing it," Megan said.
"Maybe I am. Maybe I already have", he said phlegmatically. "Who the fuck cares anymore?" He started to turn, but his father grabbed his bicep.
"I care," he said, almost aggressively.
Drake shrugged. "I don't."
"That's not true."
"We'll see," he said, too tired to argue. With that, he pulled himself free, then went to the living room and curled up on the loveseat — something he spent most of his time doing over the past week.
Drake's eyes shot open when his badly bruised shoulder was shaken rather violently. He looked up with confusion when he saw Vance. "Mmwhat the fuck?" he groaned, his voice strained from tiredness.
"Get up. We're gonna hang out."
"What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I'm picking you up. Let's go."
"Fuck off."
Winston came into view now. "I called him," he said. "You've been moping around the house all week, and I'm worried about you."
"I'm fine."
"You're depressed. You sleep all day. I can't get you to eat half the time. You need to move around, get some sun, hang out with your friends."
"He's not my friend."
"Drake!"
This frightened him, so he sat up now, but he was afraid to meet the man's eyes.
"It's okay," Vance said.
"It's not okay," Winston argued. "This boy has been a great friend to you. He spent a ton of his time trying to figure out who the killer is for you, redecorated my wall for you, and even accused me of being a murderer to my face in my own home for you. He saved your life last year."
Vance responded to the point he'd gotten stuck on. "I didn't say you were a murderer. I just said we can't rule you out."
"Drake, get up. You're going with him." When his son didn't move, he brought out the strict voice. "Now."
The teen groaned like a kid with a temper tantrum. "This is fucking bullshit," he mumbled.
"Did you hear me?"
"Yes, sir." Drake stood, then tossed his bag over his shoulder. He stuffed his feet in his shoes, then was out the door.
"Go have fun," Winston called, then to Vance: "Just bring him back before dark. You boys be safe."
Vance nodded, then hurried after him.
"Why did he call you?" Drake said grumpily. He was in a bad mood because he was forced to hang out with Vance, so he was determined to make Vance feel the same way. "Where's Ja'won?"
"He has a family thing," Vance said.
"My dad couldn't have called anyone else?"
It was an obvious jab, but Vance was too nice to acknowledge it. "He probably doesn't know your other friends."
Drake didn't have other friends. There were Nickii and Mindy, but Winston could tell something was going on there and didn't want to get involved. He had the Premiere crew, but Drake didn't want to see them ever again after what happened last week.
"So now I get stuck with you, a guy using my assault for his own gain."
"Did you watch my video?" Vance asked, breathing hard from all the exercise. "I didn't show it, and I didn't talk about all the details. The focus of the video was to ponder questions like 'How does Ghostface have this footage?', 'Does this relate to his motive?', and 'What does this mean for us?'"
"Wow, do you want a little gold star, detective?" He shoved the stairwell door open and moved swiftly down the hallway.
"What I want is to catch the killer."
"And you think you're gonna do that?"
"I did try to tell you last year that I thought Josh was the killer," Vance said, catching the glass door before it closed on him and following the grouchy teen to the parking lot.
Drake couldn't deny his claim, no matter how much he wanted to. "Okay then, Sherlock. Who do you think the killer is this time?"
Vance stood by the door of his Mazda, wearing a slight smile on his face. "Let me show you."
He opened his door and got inside. Drake rolled his eyes, but he did the same.
Drake rested his eyes, trying hard to block out the sound of Vance's voice as the boy droned on and on about his suspect map. He'd created another. The foundation was a copy of the one he'd made on the wall at Drake's apartment, but here, Vance had added newspaper articles, sticky notes, and red yarn. He spoke excitedly, talking a mile a minute, so wrapped up in his obsession that he hadn't yet noticed Drake not paying attention.
For once, Drake would like to forget that there was a killer after him. He didn't want to think about murder and blood and suspects. He just wanted to sleep. Sure, he'd done a lot of that this past week, but it wasn't enough. It'd never be enough. Not after everything he'd suffered through.
He wondered how long Vance would keep this up. The boy spoke about it the entire car ride — which had been extra long because he'd graciously stopped by to pick up an early lunch for the both of them — and he continued gushing about it as they walked through the garage door, up the stairs, into his bedroom, and here he was, still talking about it. Drake had a headache, and he cursed his father for making him come here.
Not only was the incessant one-sided discussion causing physical pain, but also, Vance's bed was hard, and he had few pillows. Drake got more comfort from his short loveseat that dipped in on one cushion from the previous owner being heavy and having a preferred side. Okay, that was an exaggeration, but still, they were pretty even. On the plus side, Vance's bed didn't reek of cigarettes and old people.
"Are you listening?" Vance said.
"Mm-hmm."
"No, you're not. Your eyes are closed."
Drake opened them. "I'm listening," he said.
Satisfied, Vance went back to his board. Like last year, it was located at the foot of his bed, but other things in the room had been rearranged since the party Vance had thrown on the night of the massacre. His desk was now moved to the opposite wall and facing the bed. That way, when he made his videos, there was a decorated wall behind him rather than a view of his entire room. Hardly any white could be seen, for movie posters covered every inch. Besides that, everything was the same — or from what Drake could recall, it was.
Just like last week when Vance had created the map on Winston's wall, he spoke with a confidence that was abnormal for him. Drake couldn't pinpoint his emotions. He sounded gleeful, but his face was flat. Drake always had trouble gauging how his so-called "friend" was feeling. Sometimes he wondered if Vance felt anything at all.
Usually, Vance was quiet — sometimes struggling to figure out when it was appropriate to speak up in a conversation, but oftentimes, he just listened. That is, until the topic switched to horror or film or true crime: one of his fortes. Then he couldn't shut up to save his life.
There was something strange about Vance — everyone saw it (except maybe Ja'won) — and even though the boy had saved Drake and Megan's lives last year, Drake still found it hard to trust him.
"Dude!" Vance said, frustrated.
"I'm listening," Drake said, but his eyes were closed again, and he didn't bother to open them this time. There was a moment of peace, then he was hit with a pillow. "What the fuck, dude?!"
"You need to pay attention. This information could save your life."
"Maybe I don't wanna be saved." He'd practically given up. All week, he laid around waiting for the killer to come for him, but Ghostface never showed.
"That is so unbelievably selfish."
"Selfish? How is that selfish? I'd be doing everyone a favor."
"You think the killer is gonna come after you next? If he wanted to kill you, he would've done it at the laundromat," Vance said.
"He tried."
"I promise you, he didn't."
Deep down, Drake knew it was true.
"He's still playing a game. You're last on his list. First, he's gonna kill me, then Ja'won, then your dad, then your little sister. You know how this shit works, Drake. Stop acting like a fucking child. We all need you. Your sister needs you."
Vance was right, and this pissed Drake off even more.
"What about you, huh?" said Drake. "Let's talk about you. Maybe you're the killer."
"We're doing this again?"
"What? I'm just keeping all my options open. I mean, you're fucking obsessed with me. Why wouldn't it be you?"
"Have you ever thought that maybe I just wanted to be your friend?"
"Why would you want that?" he asked, perhaps with more emotion than he meant, his desperation for proof that maybe he wasn't so worthless after all coming out in his voice.
"Because I thought you were cool, and I thought maybe there was something beneath the surface that you kept buried in school — something I resonated with. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe you're just as shallow as everyone thinks. Maybe you really are just a fucking loser."
"Fuck you."
"Prove me wrong," Vance said, but Drake was quiet. "You can't, can you?"
"I hate you." Drake stood, grabbed his bag, then started towards the door, but his host blocked him. "Move."
"Make me."
"Move!"
"Make me!"
Drake pushed Vance to the side, but despite being shorter, Vance hardly stumbled, then came at him twice as hard. Drake hit the floor. Enraged, he stood, then shoved Vance. This time, his opponent's back came into contact with the wall, but Vance was in front of him again in no time. Vance held him back, no matter how much he resisted, until finally pushing Drake again. Drake landed on his ass.
"You're weak," Vance spat.
It was true. With his constant mental and physical fatigue, on top of the heroin use, he wasn't as agile as he used to be. Additionally, he was still healing after the brutal beating from his father last week. Plus, perhaps he was a bit malnourished. Still, Vance's words angered him. Drake went for his hostage-taker again, and Vance tackled him to the ground easily, pinning him down.
"Get off!" Drake shouted, pouting. "Get the fuck off me!"
Vance did. "Now imagine I'm Ghostface, and the only thing that stands between me stabbing your little sister in the face is you. She wouldn't stand a chance."
Drake stood. "Fuck you."
"That won't stop me," Vance said. "And now your sister's bleeding out all over the floor."
Drake was sweating after all the effort he'd put into the fight. Vance wasn't.
"I could've killed you just now if I wanted to, so let's move on to the next suspect, shall we? What about Rezza?"
"This is fucking stupid."
"You're fucking stupid," Vance said. "I know who he is."
There was silence, so finally, Drake broke it with harsh, nervous laughter. "Whatever, dude."
"Admit it."
"Admit what?" Drake spat.
"Sleeping all the time. Not eating. Isolating yourself. Mood swings. Daily visits to a felon who was arrested for dealing."
"Are you spying on me?"
"I don't need to. I already know."
"You don't know shit." Drake said.
"I know what an addict looks like, Drake. I've been one."
If he wasn't panicked by the fact that he was caught, he would've been shocked at the revelation.
"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about," Drake said.
"No? Let me help you then." Vance pulled a tin box out of the back of his waistband. "Look familiar?"
Drake swallowed. "Where'd you get that?"
"I swiped it from your bag while you were nodding out in my car," he said. "Heroin, Drake?!"
Drake snatched it, then opened the lid, checking to see if his lifeline was still intact.
"Don't worry. I didn't take anything," Vance said with snark.
Drake put the lid back on, then placed his kit safely in his backpack. "Fuck this. I'm out." He shouldered past his new sworn enemy, and he was right outside the door when Vance spoke again.
"I'll tell your dad."
Drake turned to him, hurt. "You wouldn't do that."
"Wanna bet?" Vance took his cellphone out of his pocket.
"You're a fucking cunt if you tell him."
Vance's fingers danced around on his phone, then the prick turned it around so that Drake could see his own name and number on the screen.
"Alright, you can have it!" Drake said, taking the tin box back out and setting it on the dresser.
Still, Vance pressed call, then put the phone to his ear.
Fear struck Drake like a bolt of lightening — struck him like his father's fist. He hurried forwards. "Please don't tell him! Please! Vance, please!" Drake no longer hid behind the tough facade and instead showed what he really was: weak. "Please! You don't understand! He'll kill me!"
Vance pulled the phone away from his ear and pressed the red button. "There it is — that will to live. It was just hidden underneath all the heroin."
"You're a fucking asshole," he said, shaking. The sudden adrenaline rush left him panting for breath. Sure, his father was sober, but he still had a temper, and Drake was still afraid of him.
"At least I'm not pathetic."
The phone rang. Vance looked at it, and Drake could read the name upside-down.
"Don't answer it," Drake said.
"You need to tell him."
"No," he said, childlike with fear.
"You have to tell him."
"I can't! Please, Vance! Please! I'll do anything you want!"
"I want you to tell him." His finger moved towards the green button, and when Drake darted at him, he stepped back, then gave Drake a challenging look, threatening to flatten him out again if he touched him.
Instead, Drake put his hands together. "Please. Please." He dropped to his knees desperately. "I'm begging you." His eyes were wet, and his voice trembled. "Look." He lifted his shirt, revealing his week-old bruises.
"What the hell is that?"
"You've done the research. You know what he's like."
This made Vance pause. Drake could see the gears spinning in his head before his eyes moved to the phone screen.
"Please. Look at me." Drake removed the entire shirt, revealing the rest of his bruises and the burn, as well as a track mark on the inner fold of his right arm. When he saw Vance answer the phone, his face contorted, and he hung his head with defeat.
"Yes, hi," Vance said. "Sorry, my phone was having an issue. I was just wondering if it was alright for Drake to spend the night at my house?"
Drake looked up at him with hope.
"Of course, sir," Vance said. "Um, he's in the bathroom right now. Can he call you back in a few minutes? Okay. Yes, sir, I will. Bye."
Vance hung up as Drake collapsed onto his bottom and wept. Drake pulled his knees to his chest and hid his face in his hands. Vance sat down next to him, staying silent as he placed a hand on a bruiseless part of the battered teen's back.
"I never wanted to be like this," Drake cried. "I made a mistake, and now I can't stop."
"I'll help you," Vance said.
Drake had tried to fall asleep, hoping he'd be lucky enough to slumber through the monstrous withdrawals, but he'd tossed and turned, already feeling the onset. It got bad at nightfall.
First came the cold sweats. He was feverish, and his nose was running — like the flu, but worse. Way, way worse. When the body aches started, he groaned and swore.
Upon hearing the first of what was to be many wordless complaints, Vance had turned from his suspect map and asked, "How are you feeling?"
"Don't fucking talk to me," Drake had replied venomously.
Hours passed. He continued to shiver, yet he was sweating so profusely that the sheets were soaked. His swearing and groaning became more frequent. He curled into himself, clutching his stomach, jolting and jerking with each sharp pain that hit him. Despite the fatigue, he couldn't stop moving his legs. He needed to move, to rest, to get up, to sleep, but he could do none of those things. All he could do was lay there and suffer.
When he spoke, it came out airy and exhausted, as if he were losing his voice. "Oh God, please... Please make it stop." He broke down in tears, begging for relief, but the pain only got worse. At one point, he pitifully blubbered, "I'll never do it again. I swear I'll never do it again," but not long after, he said the opposite. "I can't do this. I need it. Please, I need it, Vance."
Always thinking ahead, Vance had already dumped his kit.
Drake continued enduring the torture until he suddenly shot off the bed and zipped out of the room. Vance was quick to chase after him, but Drake didn't go towards the stairs and attempt to escape. Instead, he dashed into the bathroom, but not fast enough, for he began expelling things out of both ends before he could reach the toilet.
Vance gave him a mini trash can to puke in, then turned the shower on for him. The host brought a change of clothes and swapped out the sweaty bedsheets while he was at it. Without complaint, Vance cleaned up the long trail of vomit and diarrhea. Meanwhile, Drake wiped himself off and apologized on repeat, feeling ashamed.
Drake got in the shower for a more thorough clean, but halfway through, he found himself back on the toilet. Now that the heroin was leaving his system, so was everything else that the drug had blocked up. Never had he taken such a violent shit in his life.
After finishing his business and taking another shower, Drake was back in bed, facing the wall. Vance lounged next to him, reading a comic book to himself. Again, Drake tried to sleep, but it came in fragments — two minutes here; five minutes there. That was the most he'd get at a time, and then something would wake him — either his restless legs or a pain in his stomach or a cramp in his calf. Each time he awoke, he was reintroduced to the horrors of his reality, and it would bring him to tears.
Drake lifted his sweaty, trembling hand and gripped the headboard so tightly that his knuckles were white. He bit down on his own bicep to muffle his cries, but a squeak escaped.
"Keep hanging in there," Vance said. "I'm proud of you."
Drake turned over and surprised Vance by curling up in the fetal position next to him. The worn addict nestled his head against Vance's ribcage, then grabbed a fistful of the boy's tee, but he didn't stop there. Confused, Vance set his comic down, then slouched when Drake reached up and draped an arm over his shoulder.
Vance softly rubbed his guest's back. "You got this. You're almost through."
Drake pulled Vance closer, forcing his kidnapper to lay down with him. He wrapped his arm around the back of Vance's neck and buried his face under Vance's chin, clinging to his babysitter like a sick toddler as he shook. He was crying again, and he didn't care who saw.
Vance held him close, trying his best to offer Drake whatever comfort he could. "You're gonna be okay," he promised. "This will all be over soon."
When Vance entered the room the next morning with a food tray, Drake didn't move. He was wiped out, like he had spent the entire night running for his life. In a way, he sort of had. It's like the heroin hadn't wanted to leave him — like it clawed at him, ripping away every ounce of his energy, leaving him a deflated, depressed shell of himself.
"You need to eat," Vance said, scooting in next to him.
"I'm so sick," came Drake's weak whisper.
"Here. Drink some more of your Gatorade." Vance grabbed it off the nightstand and opened it for him, then held it out.
Drake obeyed, sitting up just enough not to spill it. His hand still had a tremor as he tilted the bottle over his mouth, so Vance didn't let go of it just in case. Afterwards, Drake exhaustedly rested his head against the pillow again. Vance tore off a piece of bacon, then passed it to him. Drake had submitted to everything Vance had told him to do throughout the night, and he didn't stop now. He forced the meat down, hoping it would satisfy the boy, but he was handed another piece. He wanted to protest, but after everything he'd forced Vance to put up with last night, he felt like he couldn't, so he accepted it and chewed it without argument. Drake ate the rest of his breakfast this way, with Vance either tearing the bacon and toast into little pieces or force-feeding him eggs with a fork.
The pain had started to let up a little while ago — not completely, but it felt good to know that he really was almost through this. He never wanted to feel like this ever again. He wouldn't allow himself to touch the shit anymore. He couldn't.
Drake lay on the bed, dozing in and out of sleep, still struggling to stay that way for long with his restless legs and Vance's talking. Vance wasn't yapping at his guest this time, but rather his camera as he recorded videos for his YouTube channel, like he did every Sunday morning. Vance had asked if it would bother Drake, and not wanting to be an asshole, Drake said it wouldn't. He regretted it now.
The videos were all Halloween related — a tier of the Halloween movies ranked and a list of the best movies to binge on Halloween (which included Trick 'r Treat, Idle Hands, and unsurprisingly, Halloween) — because the holiday was tomorrow. Drake had forgotten all about it.
When he was little, he used to love going out trick-or-treating. When he hit his pre-teens, he and his friends (just Stephen and Trevor at the time) would go unsupervised, robbing all three of their neighborhoods of candy, then doubling back for more. When he got a little older, they started partying instead, switching their innocent sweets for blunts and vodka shots.
He didn't celebrate the year his mom had died since the death had taken place only eight days before Halloween. He didn't go out the following year either, for he'd been stuck in the hospital. He doubted he'd do anything this year, what with there being another killer on the loose. Who would want him at their party anyway? He was a death magnet.
If he did do something, he'd probably get together with Mindy, drink, and maybe she'd give him the chance to prove that he could perform better than before.
The sound of a phone vibrating against a hard surface pulled him out of his thoughts. Vance picked it up and looked at the screen.
"It's your dad."
Drake stood, then took the phone from him with a quiet apology. He stepped out of the room to answer it. "Hey."
"Hey. Drake."
"Yes, sir?"
"You're up early."
"We didn't really sleep."
"I remember those nights. Sounds like you had a good time then," his father said.
"Yeah," Drake said.
"Good. Well, listen, Franklin called out of work, so they're giving me his shift. Do you think you can get here to babysit Megan?"
"I'm not a baby," the girl chimed in from the background.
"Yeah. I'll see if Vance can drop me off."
"Perfect. Try to hurry. I don't wanna leave Megan alone with a killer on the loose."
"I'll be there soon," Drake promised.
They ended the call, and he entered the bedroom again. Vance was no longer recording his video, but rather standing so close to the door that Drake almost ran into him. Probably eavesdropping.
Knowing he was caught, Vance explained himself. "I just wanted to make sure you weren't gonna bolt."
"My legs hurt so much that I don't think I could, even if I wanted to," Drake said, but it wasn't the complete truth. He wanted to. He really fucking wanted to. All night, he'd felt an intense craving for the drug. It was a kind of hunger he'd never felt before, like a vampire forced to sit through an unsatisfying three-course meal at a fancy restaurant when all he wanted was blood. "My dad needs me to babysit. Do you have time to take me home?"
"Yeah. Let me shut all this down and make sure everything is saved," Vance said.
Soon after, they were in the car and halfway to the Overlook Apartment Complex. They sat in silence, and at first, Drake was grateful for the peace, but his mind wouldn't let him off the hook for long. He couldn't help but think about how close Rezza lived and how easy it would be to knock on his door and get a fix. God, he wanted it so bad. He was shaking with anticipation. Drake clasped his clammy palms together, trying to hide his trembling. His body still ached, and he was still sick as shit. One quick stop on the tenth floor could solve his problems.
"Do you remember yesterday," he started, needing a distraction, "when you said you were an addict, too?" Drake's own wording surprised him. He noticed the use of the word "too", meaning he was, for the first time, admitting both out loud and to himself that he was an addict. He was so occupied by the thought that it took him a moment to realize that Vance hadn't responded. "Sorry, that's probably too personal. You don't have to tell me."
"No, it's okay. It's just...not my proudest moment. You know?"
Drake nodded. He knew all too well.
"It was Valium. My uncle gave me one to chill me out one day, and I really liked it. I started asking for one every now and then, and then it became more frequent. He was hesitant about it, but eventually, he gave in and started selling them to me," Vance said. There was a moment of silence. "I just liked the way they made me feel. They calmed me down. Made me forget about how shit things were at school and in my head."
Drake understood this. First, he'd started with OxyContin, and that helped him get through each day. He'd known that what he was doing was wrong — that it wasn't healthy — but he'd lied to himself about how much he'd needed the pills, making his drug use not seem so severe.
"If some asshole pushed me around, I'd pop a pill. If someone at school made fun of me, I'd pop a pill. It was like that, and I started using for smaller and smaller things. It eventually got to the point where I couldn't hide it anymore. When my mom found out, she put me in rehab. She threatened to have my uncle locked up for selling drugs to a minor, but she didn't. That was the end of that. When I got out, I put all my focus into creating my YouTube channel."
Learning about this made Drake feel closer to Vance. He never would've expected it from the annoying, stalkerish, socially awkward gossip king, and it made him recall some of their interactions they'd had back in school.
"I'm sorry if...if I ever..." Drake put his eyes on his lap with shame. "I keep saying 'if'. I know it was me — that I played a part in the bullying. I guess I thought I was the shit," he said. "And then I got a reality check. Turns out I'm not the shit — just a piece of shit. Just a teeny tiny insignificant speck of shit. I got my karma. I'm still getting my karma, if that makes you feel better."
"It doesn't," Vance said.
"Yeah, 'cause you're too nice."
"I've learned to be okay with that."
Those words hit Drake hard. He wished he could accept himself — his flaws and mistakes — like Vance could. He wished he could find that sort of peace.
They rode the rest of the way in silence. It wasn't much further. When they pulled into a parking space, Drake didn't make any moves to exit the car. Instead, he was staring at his lap again while Vance observed him.
It was almost a whisper when Drake spoke, feeling pathetic. "Please don't tell anyone."
"I won't," Vance said simply. It was a notable tone because it showed a lot about his character. Sure, Vance was all about gossip, but he never actively tried to hurt anyone. He only ever wanted to connect — to offer information that someone wanted so he himself would feel wanted. He truly was a nice guy.
"Not even Ja'won?" Drake said.
"I promise."
It sounded genuine, and Drake was relieved. "I'm sorry for how I acted last night. And all the other embarrassing shit."
"It's okay," he said. "And Drake?"
"Yeah?"
"For what it's worth, I still think you're the shit."
Finally, Drake found the bravery to meet his eyes, and he saw sincerity there. He leaned forwards and pulled Vance into a hug. "Thank you," he said. "For everything."
"Of course," said Vance. "That's what friends are for." When they separated, he said, "I'll walk you up."
It was a long climb, and Drake was still weak. Vance gave him a shoulder to lean on as they made their slow ascent. When they reached the apartment, Winston greeted them and spoke shortly before rushing off to work. Drake didn't ask his friend to leave, so Vance hung out until Drake fell asleep, then quietly made his exit after checking on Megan and offering to make her something to eat.
Drake wasn't asleep for long. His legs still restlessly jerked, waking him again and again, until he finally gave up on sleep. Bored and in need of a distraction, he decided to call Mindy. He'd called a couple times this week but never got an answer. She was probably busy with school, but now that it was the weekend, maybe she was free.
Sure enough, Mindy answered on the sixth ring. "Hello?"
"Hey," Drake said, a little too eagerly. Since it had taken him so long to get an answer, he was expecting to get her voicemail again. He stepped inside his father's room and closed the door. "What are you doing?"
"Studying."
"On the weekend?"
"It's actually not that weird. You just think it is because you never studied."
Drake chuckled. "Yeah, I guess you're right," he said. "What time do you think you'll be done?"
"I don't know," said Mindy.
"Do you wanna hang out after? I think I miss you." He laughed at this, quickly reminiscing on the recent changes in their relationship. He still thought it was insane that he and Mindy were on speaking terms — not to mention they actually got along now.
Instead of her usual giggle when he flirted with her, he was met with a sigh. "Drake, we need to talk."
He knew that line all too well. He himself had used it dozens of times in the past. It was his transition — a symbol that he was moving on. When things started to get too serious, he'd whip out this line, and then he'd have another girl by the end of the day. Not once had anyone used the line on him before.
His smile fell. "What did I do?" he asked, not needing any further explanation on what was coming — just why. He wasn't sure what he'd done to bring this on, but he knew he was to blame. He always fucked everything up.
"What we're doing isn't right," she said. "You know that."
"It felt right," he disagreed, sitting on the foot of the bed.
"Using each other to fill the hole that's missing in our lives?" Mindy said.
"Using each other?" He wasn't using Mindy, so he wasn't sure where she was getting that from unless...unless she was using him. "I thought..." he said, his hurt apparent in his voice. "I really like you," Drake admitted.
Again, she sighed. "Don't do this," she begged.
"I just don't understand. I thought we were good. I thought you were into me, too. I mean, we..."
At the memory they'd shared together in her bed, he could feel a lump rising in his throat, cutting off his words. He'd never cried over a girl before. He'd never given himself away to one before either. He'd held on to his innocence for so long just to lose it in a one-night stand. It only added to the proof that Josh was right about him.
He could still hear Josh's disdain towards him. You sicken me.
All year, he'd avoided relationships until he'd met Nickii, then he couldn't resist. Still, he held onto his virginity, even when she tried to get intimate with him. He'd held out all this time just to lose it to a girl who was apparently using him to replace his stepbrother. That stung.
You see how easy you give it away? Whore. Just like your mother.
Drake's stomach churned at the realization that he was exactly who Josh had thought. "Oh my god—" He dropped the phone, then bursted through the bathroom door and fell onto his knees in front of the toilet as vomit shot up and out of him. As the next round started, his shoulder blades protruded while the rest of his back caved in with each gag. He coughed, desperate to dislodge and expel the chunks that were stuck in the back of his throat. He spat whatever remnants he could into the toilet bowl. Drake panted for air as involuntary snot and tears dripped across his skin. Saliva hung from his lips, stretching down towards the pile of puke it belonged in.
When Drake finally dragged himself off the floor, he flushed, then trudged over to the sink to clean himself off. He hated the person staring back at him in the mirror. He hated him more than he hated anyone else. He was pathetic. He was weak. He was afraid. He was a loser. He was a whore.
A guttural growl left his lips, and then Drake spat with disgust. The loogie landed on his reflection and slowly dripped down the glass.
Suddenly, he doubled over as an excruciating pain hit him in the gut. He squatted now, gripping the edge of the sink with white knuckles, hoping that it would somehow alleviate the pain.
"Oh fuck!"
Instead, it got worse, and he fell onto his side. Drake snarled and hissed like some kind of rabid, mutated species.
"Oh God," he whined. "Just fucking kill me. Please, just fucking kill me."
He'd thought that he was through the worst of the withdrawals, but they were back with a vengeance.
"Oh fuck, please," he said as he writhed on the bathroom tile. "God, please!"
But God didn't come to his rescue. He was going to have to save himself. Mustering the last of his energy, he gripped the edge of the tub and got to his feet. He yanked the bathroom door open, sweat pouring from his hairline like boiling water in an overflowing pot. He opened the door to the main room, and Megan was immediately frightened and concerned.
"What's wrong?" she asked.
"I've gotta go out," he said. When he saw her stand and slide her foot into a shoe, he said, "No, you stay. I'll be right back."
"But Drake—"
"Just fucking do as I say, alright?!" he yelled at her, and she flinched, just like she did when their father yelled.
Drake exited the room and made his way to the stairwell. He clutched his stomach, struggling to walk due to the pain, but he knew how to put an end to it. He knew he couldn't stop now. He descended the steps, grunting and groaning, swearing and pleading — all the way down to the tenth floor. Before he could exit the stairwell, nausea struck again. He rested his clammy hand against the stone wall, facing the corner as he leaned over and puked. The force of his gags caused him to lose control of his bowels. In seconds, the backs of his legs and pants were soaked with wet, runny feces.
"Oh shit..." He fumbled with the door handle, then stumbled down the hall. Drake banged his fist against the door with one hand and clutched his stomach with the other. "Rezza, open up," he rushed. "It's me." Thankfully, the door opened. "Bro, I'm so sick," he said, hardly able to finish his sentence without gagging.
"Shit, dude. I was wondering where you've been." Rezza led him inside and guided him to the bathroom. The supplier turned on the shower, then said the words Drake so desperately needed to hear. "I'll cook up."
"Please hurry," Drake said as Rezza left.
Drake was a mess, but he didn't want to deal with it. He fell on his knees in front of the toilet, continuing where he'd left off. When that was under control, he stripped off his clothes and weakly hurled himself into the tub. He allowed the water to rinse him off as he laid there, writhing in pain.
"Oh fuck...fucking shit..." He let out a scream. It didn't help much, but it still felt good to have some sort of release for the torture. Drake gritted his teeth and squeezed the lip of the tub with all his might. "Rezza!"
"Hold on, man," the dealer called back.
The bathroom door opened, but it wasn't his savior Rezza. It was a beast of a man, standing at nearly seven feet tall. He had massive muscles. His dark skin glowed in the yellow bathroom lighting, making the contours of his face all the more darker. He looked quite well — not sick or fragile like Drake — so it was doubtful that he was on drugs.
"Damn, kid," the man said. He laughed, but it wasn't a teasing one — more like a laugh of pity. "Thought you could quit chasing the dragon, huh?"
If he wasn't in so much pain, Drake would've been more embarrassed about his nudity and the shit sliding along the bottom of the tub and down the drain. He wailed with agony.
"Rezza, please!" he begged. He threw up again, but this time, he didn't have the energy to move, so it rolled down his chin and chest. His constant squirming causing it to smear against his skin and the side of the bath.
When Rezza finally returned, he tied off Drake's arm, then searched for a vein. Drake was trembling as he watched his supplier carefully poke the needle into his skin.
The pain let up instantly. The cramps were gone. The nausea was gone. The sweats were gone. It was just Drake and the heroin. That's all it would ever be until the day he died.
"You're okay now," Rezza said, brushing his fingers through Drake's hair.
The man spoke up. "I'll pay for it," he offered. "You suck dick?" Rezza must've sent him some sort of silent message, for he departed not long after. "I'ma head out. You ever need my help, kid, I'm on the eighth floor, right across the hall."
Although the pain subsided, Drake's dark thoughts didn't, and he immediately broke into sobs that even the heroin couldn't quell. He was going to be like this forever. He would never feel normal. He would never feel okay. This was his eternal hell.
Author's Note: Hey there. Just wanted to drop in really quick to give a big shoutout to the guest who recently read and commented on the previous chapters. I loved hearing your thoughts and seeing your suspects change with each new update. You are definitely picking up some clues. I can't say which, but I love to see it. Hope you and everyone else reading enjoy this chapter. Reviews are super appreciated. Been in a bit of a funk, but I'm trying to get better about writing.
