I Am Unpredictable (Book 3)

Chapter Eighteen: R is for Real Talk and Richard

"Please, for the love of God, tell me that you weren't planning on killing yourselves." I gingerly pick up the knife and place it on the nearby nightstand to my left. I take a seat where the knife originally was, trying to absorb all the information I am finding out based on my surroundings. 

Brandon and Becca are crying hysterically. The note claiming that no one loves Brandon except for Becca is still sitting on his bed in his room. The weird feeling I felt when I walked into the house is still present.

The most obvious and compelling piece of information is the sharp knife sitting on the nightstand. Every time I look at it, a shiver goes down my spine. 

I can't take this.

Brandon wipes his teary eyes with his sleeve, slowly nodding. "But why should you care? You hate us, anyway."

Oh. My. God.

I've contributed to their suicidal thoughts, which is nowhere near what I wanted to happen. The whole point of helping Brandon and Becca cope with their family issues was to make them feel better. Instead, that totally backfired, causing myself to create more problems than I can handle. 

Stop trying to be such a freaking hero, Richard. You aren't a little freaking super hero. If anything, you're the villain.

The room starts to feel a little bit colder. I hug myself with my arms, trying to cover up the accumulating goosebumps and shivering. "I don't hate you guys."

"Bullshit," Becca utters, giving me a glare colder than the surrounding atmosphere. She folds her arms like me, still having tears fall down her face. "Listen, Richard, you ignored the both of us for how long? A week. You keep on doing this over and over and over again, not even giving a shit about the fact that Bran and I are miserable!"

"Rebecca, I do care. If I didn't care, then would I be in your room right now? No, I wouldn't." I sigh a little louder than I should, rolling my bright green eyes. "Don't freaking do it."

The knife, still sitting on the nightstand, shines as the sunlight coming from the window beats down on its blade. A part of me wonders if I was the inspiration behind all of this—If Richard Macedo can try to commit suicide with a knife, then I can too.

Brandon reaches over for the knife. I'm not sure if he's going to grab it to slit his throat or something, or even slit my throat for being such a douchebag lately; so I push him roughly, causing him to topple over on the bed from losing his balance.

"Don't touch that"—(swear)—"knife." 

I, scaring the living shit out of Brandon Morel, feel accomplished. I am trying to help my best friend and his ex cope with their suicidal thoughts—something they did for me before.

"I wasn't even going to—"

I interrupt him, sharply shouting, "I don't care, Brandon, just don't touch that goddamn knife!"

Becca scoots farther away from me, giving me a look of pure shock and fear. "Don't hurt us."

"I'm not gonna freaking hurt you!"

Tears begin to roll down her face once again. She draws her knees to her face, cramming herself into an awkward position. The sleeves on her shirt ride up a little, revealing a few patches of black and blue marks on her upper arm.

Bruises.

I rapidly stand up. "Where is he?"

"Who?" she mumbles, looking totally confused. Her deep hazel eyes are open wide and her lips are barely parted.