Ciarán flinched, his eyes flicking to me for the first time. I could see the guilt and shame buried under the anger.
“Let’s go,” Oak said, his tone leaving no room for argument. He shoved Ciarán forward.
Ciarán didn’t fight him this time.
We drove back to the house in silence. When we got home, he went straight to our bedroom, closing the door. I wanted to follow him, but Oak stopped me. “Give him some space,” he said. “He’ll come out when he’s ready.”
I waited for hours before going in.
I don’t know how long I was asleep, but I woke up to the sound of thrashing. At first, I thought it was a nightmare, but then I felt the bed shaking, heard the guttural sounds coming from Ciarán’s throat.
I sat up, my heart pounding as I turned on the lamp. Ciarán was convulsing, his body jerking violently, his eyes rolled back in his head.
“Ciarán!” I screamed, scrambling out of bed. “Oak! Oak, help!”
Oak burst into the room, his cane forgotten as he rushed to the bed. He grabbed Ciarán’s shoulders, holding him down so he wouldn’t hurt himself. “Call 911!” he yelled at me.
I fumbled with my phone, my hands shaking so badly I could barely dial.
“Is he on something, Jordin?” Oak demanded, his voice tight with panic. “Coke, pills? What the fuck did he take?”
“I don’t know!” I yelled back. “He doesn’t do drugs!”
While we waited for the ambulance, Oak searched the room. He pulled open drawers, rifled through Ciarán’s things, until he found a small duffel bag hidden in the back of thebathroom closet. He unzipped it, his eyes widening as he pulled out a handful of pill bottles.
“What is that?” I asked.
Oak didn’t answer right away. He just stared at the labels, his face pale. “Mood stabilizers,” he said finally. “Antipsychotics.”
I felt like the floor had dropped out from under me. “What? He never said… he never told me…”
Oak shook his head, his jaw tight. “Why wouldn’t he tell you?”
Ciarán went still. I could tell he was still breathing by the rise and fall of his chest. I didn’t know what to do. The sound of sirens grew louder as they approached the house. Tears spilled down my cheeks.
“Why didn’t he tell me?” I whispered, my voice breaking.
Oak didn’t say anything else. He just knelt beside the bed, his hand resting on Ciarán’s shoulder.
Forty three-Ciarian
I was fucked.
I didn’t know what I’d said to the doctor, but it was enough to get me slapped with a 72-hour hold. I hated these places—sterile, cold, full of people with problems way bigger than mine. I’d been in a few in my teens. The walls were always too white, the lights too bright, the air reeking of bleach and bad decisions. Of which I’d made plenty.
That first night was the worst. They stuck me in a small room with a bed bolted to the floor and a window that didn’t open. I sat on the edge of the thin mattress, head in my hands, trying to piece together the wreckage. My mind was a tornado I couldn’t control.
At some point, I heard footsteps. I looked up and saw a figure staring through the small window in the door. Their face was blank, eyes empty, and for a terrifying second, I thought it was my pops.
Then they screamed.
A raw, guttural sound. My skin tried to crawl right off my bones. My heart hammered, but I didn’t move. I just stared back until someone yanked them away.
I didn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my father’s face—angry, broken, lifeless. I felt the weight of everything I’d carried for years, and it was finally crushing me.
When the doctor came in the morning, I was in the same spot, hands clenched into fists.
“Mr. James,” he said, calm but firm. “How are you feeling?”
