I think the thing that gets to me most about the state that Kyle's in right now, is that I'm pretty much responsible. I should've realised he was already feeling like shit. I should've seen that, and stayed, instead of freaking out and fucking off.
Drugs make me selfish - I know that now. All I'd thought about when I'd gone out was selling the crack on to make some money. I was hoping to find someone that would sell me methadone to up the dose I'm on from the clinic. It was the only thing on my mind.
The only thing that should've been on my mind was making sure Kyle was okay.
My self-pitying train of thought is derailed when there's a loud knock on the door. Kyle looks up a little bit, but I don't move at all. It's Rayn. I'd texted him on my way back, telling him I'd sold his crack and had his money for him. He knocks more, and Kyle mumbles "Better get that."
"Damien!" Rayn yells through the door. I mutter that I'll be right back, and hoping that he doesn't take advantage of my distraction, I reluctantly get up and let Rayn in. He doesn't seem to notice - or care - that my eyes are all puffy and bloodshot. "You got all the money?" he asks the moment the door's shut. I nod, picking up the brown paper bag on the table. I'd sold his half of the crack for just over fifteen grand. He'd bought it for nine. I'd hidden five thousand bucks under the sofa cushions and left ten thousand in the bag.
He looks inside the bag and counts the bundles inside, not hiding a look of horror at only having made $1000 in profit.
"Is that all?"
I nod, "it's all I could screw out of him. Sorry man." He seems kind of pissed off, but at least a little relieved he made some profit, and not at all suspicious.
"Okay, fine. I've gotta get going. See y'around."
"Yeah. Don't get your ass in any more trouble." He gives me a tiny smile and hugs me before he goes. I wander back into the bathroom, finding Kyle curled up in a ball on the floor. I try to ignore the blood as I sit down, playing with his hair.
Is this how he feels when I do shit? Like when he came home and found me behind the sofa, convinced that everyone was out to get me, including him? Or when I cut myself? Does he feel totally fucking helpless, and like it's entirely his fault somehow?
"Why are you even here?" he asks me quietly.
"Because I love you," I remind him.
"You don't," he tries to tell me again.
"Why would I be here if I didn't, Kyle?"
He shrugs a tiny bit, "To get your stuff? To make me feel bad for being such a whore?"
"I'm not going anywhere, Kyle. Not unless you want me to."
"The second one, then."
"I don't wanna make you feel bad, either." Nothing. C'mon, Kyle. I'm s'posed to be the emo fuck up, not you. "I just want us to go back to how we were before," I whisper. Before when I don't know. It's not like we've had the easiest relationship, with Danny and running away and this, and always my fucking self destruction. He still doesn't react, but when I feel tears begin to slip out of my eyes again, he starts scratching at his arm.
I kind of consider leaving him to it and just crashing on the couch, but I almost instantly reject that idea. I already left him to it and look what's happened because of that.
C'mon, gorgeous. Snap out of it. I want my Kyle back.