It was dark. I couldn’t see.
And then my vision cleared.
Joe and Kelly were there, eyes wide, telling me to stop, Carter, please stop, you’re safe, you’re okay, we’ve got you, we’ve got you.
“Not real!” I cried as I struggled against their hands. “Not real, you’re not real. Why aren’t you real?”
They held me down, pressing me into the bed.
Kelly’s mouth was near my ear. He said, “Listen. Listen to me.” He took my hand and pressed it against his chest. His heart thundered. “Do you feel that? Do you hear it? That’s how you know. You’re safe. You’re with us. We’ve got you. We’re in a motel in Wyoming. We’re with you. Me and Joe and Gavin and Gordo. All of us. I promise you.”
My skin was slick with sweat. My head was pounding. I waited for them to dissolve again and leave me.
They didn’t.
I closed my eyes, trying to calm myself. Joe’s hand was on my forehead, brushing through my hair. He hummed a little song he’d learned from our mother. About how he didn’t mind being lonely when his heart told him I was lonely too.
“He needs to be home,” Gordo said quietly as Gavin growled. “He needs the pack. All of us.”
My brothers lay on either side of me, and I didn’t dream again.
I HEARD GORDO THE NEXT MORNING. He was pacing outside of the motel in the middle of nowhere. I saw him through the window, phone pressed against his ear. Kelly and Joe had gone out to pick up something to eat. Gavin was curled on the floor, a blanket covering him as he snored.
Gordo said, “And I don’t know what to do. It’s like it was before when everything was dark. When I left you behind even though every part of me was screaming to keep you with me. Mark, I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to fix this. I don’t know how to make it all end. We can’t keep going on like this. I love you. I miss you. I need you. Please don’t ever let me go.”
I SHOWERED.
The hot water felt good on my skin. I tried not to focus on how dirty it was as it sloughed off me.
When I finished, I climbed out, rubbing myself with a towel, desperately avoiding the fogged-over mirror. I didn’t want to see what I looked like, what the past year had done to me.
A disposable razor sat on the sink next to a travel bottle of shave foam and a small pair of scissors. They hadn’t been there when I’d gotten in the shower.
I thought about ignoring it.
Instead, I wiped away the condensation from the mirror.
A stranger stared back at me, his eyes wide, his hair hanging down near his shoulders. His beard was unkempt over a thin face. His skin was pale, and as I watched, he rubbed a hand against his chest, his collarbones jutting out.
I didn’t recognize him.
And yet he was me.
I didn’t like this man.
But I understood him.
I started with the scissors, hacking off as much of the beard as I could. I cut my skin, and it bled. And healed. Bled. And healed. Dirty-blond hair filled the sink, and I saw the shape of my jaw, the sharpness of my cheekbones.
I spread the foam on my face. It was unscented but still stung my nose.
When I was finished, I looked at the man in the mirror again.
His face was too thin.
His eyes too haunted.
“Do it,” I muttered. “Do it.”