WAKE (Wattpad edition)

39. Hanging by a thread.

Soundtrack: 'Please be my strength' - Gungor

{Jon}

Jon was nauseous like the couch was rolling back and forth on ocean waves instead of standing solidly on the floor of the farmhouse. It was more than withdrawal sickness: the woman's memories drew a picture of Cary's childhood that he could painfully relate to, but hadn't thought of in years. When his brother had died, Pete had stuck by him every moment, picking him up from school, eating supper with him, taking him to the playground or watching kids' shows with him, then finally tucking Jon into his own big bed at night, in the empty spot his mother used to occupy. They never talked about Judah, but Jon had never felt alone—even though the hole of his brother's absence had left him feeling as if he'd been torn in two and half of himself had been buried in the ground. His father had been there to hold him up.

This woman had left Cary alone with a dangerously unstable parent when he had been as small and soft as Bea. In his mind's eye, Jon saw the map of scars on Cary's skin and it wrecked him. He had been so quick to blame Cary for his sister's death, shoving his face in it more than once this summer, like he, Jon, was so superior. Deep down, he had welcomed the news that someone was more fucked up than he was. Cutting Cary down, loudly and righteously, drowned out the noise of his own self-loathing.

That noise was back now with a vengeance.

Tru's footsteps came into the living room following the slam of the door and stopped beside him. He made an effort to push himself into a sitting position and meet her gaze. His throat was closed like a fist, and his eyes were burning.

"What's ailing you boy—something catching? I got too much to do around here to come down sick."

His swallow pushed against the fist in his throat, and he couldn't quite meet her eyes. "Not catching," he said hoarsely.

"You hung over? The two of you been drinking?"

Jon put the back of his hand to his mouth, shaking his head. "Cary's clean. He's not into that stuff. You should be—you would be proud of him, if you knew him."

She raked him up and down with her hard, direct look, taking in his ill-fitting clothes and cut-up arms. Jon bent his head and let her look shred him to pieces. Whatever she was thinking, the truth was worse.

"The two of you planning to head back today?"

He shook his head. He thought Cary might not tell her, and he wanted his friend to have a chance at something with her. "Cary doesn't have a home to go back to. He was living with us because he went to the police with all his bruises and scars and told them what his dad had been doing—so it wouldn't happen to his brother. There's a trial and a restraining order. That's why they aren't together. His mother kicked him out. He needs a place—to be for a bit."

Her blunt face was hard to read. "He was staying with your family? What happened there?"

Jon clasped his fingers around his upper arm. He didn't even know. He'd been so absorbed in his own bullshit that he had no idea what had happened between Cary and his parents over the summer. He lifted his shoulders and let them slump. "You have to ask him. I haven't been on great terms with them lately."

She let up on him, going to the window to look out at the yard. Jon tightened his fingers around his arm, shivering, and so sick of himself he thought he might throw up.

Jon was locked in the bathroom, bleeding, when hoarse, terrible cries pressed through the wall into the room with him. He lifted his head and let his shirt fall, instinctively climbing onto the edge of the tub as if he could exit through the narrow window to go to the noise. Dark shapes of branches and trees moved against the frosted glass, and he caught himself with his hand wrapped around the crank-handle. The window was too small, and even if he could have fit through, he couldn't stretch himself big enough to hold the hurt and rage that was battering against the house with those cries.