One Step Forward

Chapter 4. Selfish

Mya's POV

By the end of the week, there was a noticeable difference in Linc's condition. He must have exercised a lot in his room while he wasn't doing therapy with me. The hospital released him that Friday but wanted to do regular follow-ups. However, with the seriousness of his injuries, he still had to come Monday through Friday to see me. He gained much control over the upper part of his body that week.

Early Saturday morning, Bryant called me and left me a voicemail. Bryant wondered if I would check on Linc, leaving me the address. Apparently, Linc had his own place and refused to stay with anyone to help him. Bryant claimed nobody had heard from him since Friday morning when he got home. 

Linc lived within walking distance of my house, only three houses up the road. Lilly stayed back with my mom, and I walked up the street. There was a silver Dodge Ram 2500 in the driveway. Linc couldn't drive, so he had to be home. He lived in a large one-story house. 

The door was locked. I looked around, wondering if there was a hide-a-key and trying to think of where he'd put it. It didn't take me long to find the spare key. Most people said Linc and I knew each other better than we knew ourselves. 

There was an aching feeling telling me something wasn't right. As I stepped into the house, I called for him and got no response. I had never been in the house and had no time to look around or take it in. I started down the hallway. He might still be in bed.

At the back of the house, a door was ajar. My hand shook as I pushed the door open. "Linc?"

He laid in bed, and at first, I breathed a sigh of relief—until I noticed the pill bottle, whiskey, and gun on his bedside table. 

"Oh my god, Linc!" I screamed. I threw the blanket back. There wasn't any blood as far as I could see. He laid on his back. I put my cheek down near his nose and mouth to see if he was breathing. As far as I could tell, he wasn't, so I checked for a pulse. 

A slight thump in his neck told me he had a pulse but was very weak. Carrying dead weight, especially a guy twice my size, wasn't easy. I drug him into his bathroom and put him over the toilet. My only thought was that he must have swallowed pills with alcohol. I stuck my fingers down his throat. I barely got a gag reflex out of him, so I did it again. His eyes fluttered open. He gasped for air, gagged twice, and then vomited. The vomit hit the toilet and ran down my hand, but I didn't care. 

A groan escaped him, and he rested his head on the toilet after vomiting several times. I stayed next to him as I called for an ambulance. 

Tears built up in my eyes as I stared at his face, waiting for the rescue squad. 

"God damn it," he whispered. "Damn it, Mya."

I stifled a sob that threatened to escape.

"It would be you of all fucking people. You just couldn't let me have it."

"What are you talking about?" 

"I don't want to fucking be here anymore. Don't you get that? I'm tired, Mya," he said. His body shook as he started to sob. 

"Linc, why? What is wrong?" That's when a realization hit me. The motorcycle accident wasn't an accident; it was a suicide attempt.

He laughed humorlessly. "Like you care."

"Linc. . ." I trailed off. "I do care. I don't want this for you."

A long silence followed, and the sirens in the distance broke it.

"Linc, the accident. . ."

"It wasn't an accident," he muttered. "I knew I should have just used the fucking gun. I was just trying not to fuck up my face, for Mom's sake."