remember me. (crenny)

five

Craig was sitting on the floor of our living room at an awful hour of the night.

He'd shown up around 11pm, cold and wet and sickly looking. He spoke little, but when he did it was timid and unlike his usual monotonous self. I figured he had to be on something.

His jeans looked all too big on him, and his t-shirt hung around his shoulders like a blanket. He was drowning in fabric to an extent that made me wonder if I could fit both hands around his waist if I tried. His arms looked jagged, and it was obvious from the moment he took off his coat that at some point in recent months he'd done something to himself. His body was struggling to heal itself from the assault on his skin.

How deep was he trying to go? Could he even go that deep if he tried? His arms are like branches.

I didn't want to think about that. I didn't want to.

I still felt resentment towards him, but I didn't want him to be so sick he couldn't go home.

"Should I call Laura?"

Clyde and I were standing in the kitchen with Kyle, who had been home when Craig knocked on the door. We were trying to figure out what to do with him. I didn't like how objectifying it was, talking about him like he was something to be 'dealt with'.

"I don't know," Kyle whispered. "Tricia, maybe, if you're gonna call family– or should we call the sheriff's department?"

Clyde shook his head, arms folded across his chest. He couldn't pull his eyes off the living room doorway. "No. No police. He'll just get sectioned again."

"Well maybe that's what he needs," Kyle reasoned, trying to find a solution. I hated this conversation. Craig wasn't a problem we could solve.

"If it was really what he needed, wouldn't it have worked by now?" Clyde was pale. He looked like he was going to throw up on the floor.

I peeked into the living room. Craig was just staring at the floor, fiddling with his fingers. He looked like a child who couldn't understand why he was in trouble.

We'd learned in our initial discussion upon Craig coming inside that he'd spent the first month missing hitchhiking around, trying to figure out where he wanted to stop. He wasn't able to make it out of Colorado like he'd hoped, so he just stopped in Denver sometime in March.

He'd looked around for jobs, however he came to find he couldn't apply because he would be turned in to the police. He'd stayed a few nights under bridges, on strangers' couches (of which he skimmed by, seemingly not wanting to go into any further detail about said experiences), and about two months in a homeless shelter.

He didn't show up until the shelter told him if he continued to act recklessly, he couldn't stay there. So, he found Clyde's apartment on whitepages. And here he was.

"I just think his situation isn't something we can tackle ourselves," Kyle continued. "We could call the non-emergency line, ask for an ambulance. He looks like he needs medical help."

Clyde just kept shaking his head. He didn't want to send Craig away again. He just came back.

I didn't know if I had anything to add. I was trying not to lose my hatred for him. Someone needed to keep their anger for the sake of his family, who couldn't be begged to say a negative word about their so-called 'baby boy'. Someone needed to keep this asshole in check, at least to some degree.

But he was here. He was right in front of me, and suddenly all I felt was nervous.

This asshole made me nervous.

"He needs help," I chipped in. I was trying really hard not to spit my words. "I don't know who, I don't know what, he just needs help."

Clyde swallowed, rubbing his knuckles. I wasn't sure if I was more worried about him or Craig. He'd been doing so well at keeping his mind off of Craig since May, and this was about to set him back completely. Kyle was the first to respond to me. "Should we talk to him? Ask him how we can help?"