Growing Pains

Chapter 54 - You watch too many chick-flicks

Z O E Y

Richard had called me to come in last minute because Linda was out with friends and wanted him to join them for drinks in town. These were friends he hadn't met yet, and that according to Linda, meant a lot to her, so Richard definitely had to go. There was no other way. I had been eating on the couch with my mom, who thought the whole thing was ridiculous, especially since usually Tristan was home and could very well take care of his brother, but eventually told me to wrap up my burrito and eat it on the bus ride there.

As it turned out, Tristan really was home, but according to Sam, he had been in bed with a headache since he had gotten home from school. Sam was also ready for bed, but more than that, he was ready to tell me all about the art club he had joined at school. So, after Richard left in a hurry, I put Sam under the covers and sat next to him to hear all about it.

It was past midnight when I realized it, and obviously, Sam was still very much up, going on and on about what Dave and he had planned for their next comic book. Richard had been very clear about respecting bedtime, and here I was, not respecting it.

"Sam," I stopped him. "As much as I'm loving hearing all about this, I can't let you go on. You have school tomorrow."

Linda hated being late. Most times she let him skip school if he overslept, which most times caused a big fight between Richard and her, sometimes so big, it made Sam cry. So no, he really couldn't go on. He had to go to sleep, and he knew it, because he took a deep breath and finally laid his head on his pillow.

I had one foot out of the door, when he said, "Love you."

I felt it in my ribs, in the corners of my eyes, in my throat, and I smiled at him, and said, "Me too." And I meant it. I really meant it.

Then Tristan came out of his bedroom next door, cursing, his hands on his face, blood dripping to the floor. I thought I imagined it, but I didn't. 

"What happened?" I called, but he didn't answer, moving for the bathroom at the end of the hallway instead, still cursing, still bleeding. I didn't think much about it. I just followed him, "What's happening, Tristan?!"

The next thing I knew Sam was behind me, "He's having one of his nosebleeds. He has them a lot. Sometimes we have to take him to the hospital."

"What?" What?!

No one answered. When Tristan walked into the bathroom, I reached for the door before he could close it on my face, but he did it anyway, so hard, and so fast, my hand got caught in the middle of it. I pulled it away as fast as I could, a curse leaving my mouth before I could stop it, a sharp pain shooting through my fingers, and the fear of having just broken most of them. It didn't matter. Not right now.

"Just leave me alone! I'm fine!"

I looked back at all the blood that had dripped to the floor of the hallway, all the way from Tristan's bedroom and towards us, "You don't look fine!"

"Well, I fucking feel fine!" he said, lied. I was sure he was lying.

Sam held my hand, the one that wasn't swelling and bruising, and said, "He's always like this. He doesn't like it when –"

"Go to your fucking room, Sam!" Tristan stopped him.

"No!" Sam answered, squeezing my hand. "Dad said we should call 911 if –"

"I'm fucking fine!!"

"Is it stopping?" I asked him, trying my best not to cry, even though I couldn't move my fingers without more pain piercing through them, even though Tristan had locked himself in the bathroom to bleed out on his own. I didn't cry. I wouldn't. I asked again, "Tristan, just answer –"