I AM CARRIED away from Jeremy’s house, my legs dragging at the dirt, my body limp, by a man in yellow. He speaks to me, words that I ignore, words I can barely hear through my screams of Jeremy’s name. Screams I am not sure are even coming from my mouth; they may just be screaming through my soul, my head, imaginary breaks in my sanity like bright-ass light streaming through a wasntpulledtightenoughclosed curtain.
I am dragged away, and my view of the house disappears as an ambulance door replaces it.
I will kill Mike. I don’t care if I brought Marcus to his doorstep. I will kill him and then kill myself. Slowly, in a fashion that will cause as much pain as my body can physically take. Fuck, I may skip Mike, my self-hatred too strong to control. I, killer of good, am not fit to live.
I am lifted, a second face joining the first, and they speak, a light shining into my eyes, useless questions coming forth from their lips. I speak, through the screams, the only thing they need to know.
“Jeremy.” I repeat it, just in case they didn’t hear it. Repeat it again, louder. And again, my strength dropping. Then I am whispering the name, and I don’t know if anyone, other than my soul, can hear it.
“Jeremy.”