The Cascading Waves of Caden Lee

25

SCARLETT PARKER

Dallas is exactly as I remember him. From what I know—not much, only fragments I've overheard from Noah or the local gossips—he hasn't had the easiest life. It's a little hard to take pity, though, when he shows up to our meet-up looking like the trashiest person I've ever seen.

I guess I can't judge. The first few months after Noah's death showers were so scarce I could've qualified as a sewage rat. It's gross, but it's the truth.

His eyes are bloodshot, pupils slightly dilated from what I assume is the leftovers of last nights endeavors, eyeliner smudged so aggressively he almost resembles a raccoon.

"Hey," I say, hesitantly, when I realized he wasn't gonna talk first. His green eyes focus in on me. I shift in my seat uncomfortably.

"It's been awhile." He murmurs. His voice is hoarser than I remember, probably the cigarettes. "I've been meaning to talk to you."

"Yeah?" I assumed he gave up after the last message from a few months ago. I feel a twinge of guilt in my chest from me ignoring him all this time. He was as close to Noah as I was, or near the end, anyway.

"Why'd you block me? I mean, I get it, but did I do something wrong?"

He did. He just doesn't know I know. He may've took the loose pills in Noah's pocket before he called the ambulance and left, leaving his best friend cold and lifeless on our basement floor, but he missed the empty pill bottle that had fallen from Noah's hand.

I remember the gasp I let out as I read the name "Dallas Duncan" and the words "OXYCODONE W/ ACETAMINOPHEN 5/325 TAB MCK take every 6 hours as needed" printed in tiny bold lettering beneath. It felt like an arrow had pierced my chest.

I don't know if my brother was just high out of his mind, lost from reality, and downed the bottle in an effort to get more high. Or if he downed the bottle in a double proof plan to make sure he died that night. I read online many drug users who commit suicide often do it under the influence, the result of lowered inhibition and rational thought. Maybe he killed himself after downing the pills so he he blade that pierced his wrist wouldn't sting as much as it would had sober.

I don't know, and I never will, but I do know Noah overdosed on Dallas' pills and then slit his wrists afterwards, and Dallas left without so much as a goodbye, no explanation, no note, no apology.

No one will ever know the pills were his. Some part of me didn't want him to get caught. So when I heard the sirens and discovered Noah's body downstairs, I discreetly snagged the pill bottle while the paramedics carried Noah out on a stretcher. I was crying so hard i could barely see, but some sort of me still thought to hide Dallas'  secret.

I still wonder whether it was the right choice in the end.

"That's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

"Oh," he looks nervous. "Uhm, okay, carry on."

I don't know how to say it lightly, how to ease the blow, so I just say it with my chest. "Why did Noah overdose on your pills? I saw the bottle that night," you pause, "you're lucky i didn't leave it there to be documented as evidence."

He pauses, his right leg starts to bounce up and down rapidly. I can see the cogs turning in his brain; lie or honesty? Give closure to his only family member who cared or save your own ass?

"I'm sorry," he hesitates, seemingly trying to form his own thoughts into sentences, "I just didn't know what to do. We were getting high off my prescription, you know, the one from my torn ACL?"

I nod.

"We only took our normal amount, I promise. You have to believe me Scarlett, I didn't do anything to him. He was acting weird that night, but I didn't really put any thought into it." He stops to take a breath; brows furrowed and sweat dampening his forehead.

"I nodded off, I must've left the bottle beside me on the floor, cause next thing I know I wake up hours later and my best friend is dead. It's selfish, and I feel the guilt of it everyday, I really do, but I didn't want to get arrested."

"Oh." I dont know what to say to that.

"I'm so sorry."

"It's okay," I grimace.

I know it's not.

_._._._._._._._

Later that night I scroll through Dallas' instagram. It's filled with him and Noah. They look happy. I guess I have this weird image of Noah in my mind that just because he killed himself,he had no happy moments in his life. But this picture I'm looking at right now, the dimples on his cheeks concave and a bright twinkle in his squinted eyes, I know his joy is genuine.

I keep Dallas unblocked. Maybe some day we'll reconcile, if he gets his shit together, at the least.

I try not to think about the fact that Noah chose to leave me all on his own, no Dallas to blame, but the thought sneaks up on me that night.

And I cry so hard my chest aches and my eyes sting.