Ragged✔|18+

NINETEEN

Trigger Warning: suicide attempt

CLYDE

"Okay. I've got one silver dollar, a leaflet containing info about a dungeon & beasts game, and a hundred dollars. Beat that."

Reyna's face comes close to the camera, and there's a few seconds where her phone shakes as she tries to adjust its placement. Getting a call from her was a welcomed distraction from the sad state of affairs that is my Saturday night. With no parties to attend or any form of invitation sent my way, I've reserved myself as the unofficial babysitter to my brothers. If they're even home, that is.

"I don't know. It may seem like you're winning, but I have a locket with questionable origin, a limited edition baseball card, and an expired backstage pass to see Metallica."

The game was ridiculous at first, but as I'm slowly figuring out, anything that involves talking to her and hearing her laugh is addictive.

"No." She laughs and covers her face.

"You lost fair and square. You owe me."

"Yeah, I guess I do. No disgusting favors," she warns, pointing a finger at me.

"Where are you?"

"My grandparents' house. They're having a party in honor of their new daughter-in-law."

"Sounds fun."

Rolling her eyes, she says, "More like awkward and uncomfortable as fuck. Everyone's here, and I mean everyone. Even some of my dad's exes."

"Right. What about—"

The door to my room flies open and Aspen almost trips as he rushes inside.

"Clyde," he pants, trying to catch his breath, and points at the door. "Leo. . . Leo's on the floor."

He's barely finished the sentence when I dash past him, running down the hall as fast as I can to Leo's room. At first, I don't see him. Just his room. There's a large study desk set up in one corner, school supplies scattered all over it. His bed is neatly made, save for a throw blanket scrumpled at its foot. The windows are open, and a soft breeze sweeps past the sheers, ruffling some papers on his study desk. For a split second, I assume the worst. Maybe he climbed over and—

No. Aspen said on the floor, so I round up the other side of his bed, and he's there. Lying face down, no movement. Kneeling, I turn him over, careful not to jostle him and cause more harm to him. A quick perusal over his body—wrists, especially—reveals no sign of bodily harm, but his face tells a different story.

"Leo," I call his name to see if he responds. When he doesn't, I raise my voice, "Leo!"

No response. Not even a twitch.

I'm full out panicking right now, and every second that passes stamps the possibility that my brother is gone.

Think, Clyde. Think.

I manage to wade through my jumbled thoughts and remember the first aid process for a situation like this. Wade practically hammered that into my brain the first time something like this happened.

If it's an overdose, get the narcan, okay? Get the narcan.

"Narcan," I choke out, focusing on Aspen. "Go get the Narcan in my room. Top drawer on the left nightstand. You understand?"

Once he's gone, I carefully adjust Leo and tip his head back. Two fingers on the side of his neck reveal a weak pulse, but it's a pulse nonetheless. Or maybe it's my wishful thinking.