oh, anna [-hs]

cardigan

36.

The car slows to a stop in front of his apartment. It's so much faster getting here when you drive. I jump out of the passenger seat. We've barely parked. Harry curses under his breath watching the door slam. I ignore him, climbing the steps up to the front of the building, pressing the buzzer twice. I hear him slam his own door, and his footsteps echo up the stairs after me.

"Damnit Quinn," He catches up to me after a moment. I don't respond, just stare helplessly at the front door, begging Wes to unlock it and let us in. "Maybe press it again," he tries.

I shake my head. "He heard us, it would just agitate him. He's coming."

We stand there for two minutes. Harry begins to tap his foot impatiently. I give him a side-eye. He stops, but huffs and crosses his arms.

The door clicks, signalling that it unlocked. I swing it open, taking on the staircase two at a time. Harry hurries after me.

His front door is cracked open. I hesitate in front of it, looking back at Harry in the poorly lit hallway. He runs a hand through his hair and sniffs.

"It might be best if you wait out here." I gently suggest. He shakes his head fervently.

"No."

"You don't like him."

"So?" He scoffs.

"He doesn't like you either. You won't make him feel better."

He pauses, running his tongue over his teeth, and then sighs and steps back, sliding down the length of the wall to sit against the baseboard. I turn back to the door and slowly creak it open.

There's Wes. 

He's sitting against the wall, just like Harry outside. Held loosely between his fingers is the butt of a cigarette. If he holds it any longer he'll probably burn himself, but I think he's past the point of caring about that. To his left lays two packs, one half gone the other unopened. 

Scattered around the room is the evidence of a breakdown. There's a blue glass plate, part of a set I bought him for our anniversary, with smudges of cocaine. The same skillet of needles I saw months ago still litters the ground. A chair from his kitchen table lays face down, two of its legs splintered away. The curtains are torn. His clothes are scattered everywhere, like he was searching frantically for a narcotic to ease his pain.

His head is pointed down at the floor, his hair covering his face, but when he hears the faint sound of the door and my footsteps, he peeks up at me. His eyes are bloodshot and yellowed.

"Hey Bell." He coughs a little and looks back down. I move to him, and sit myself down between his body and the packs of cigarettes. He flicks the butt of his to the floor and softly steps on it with his sock. There's a hole burned into the bottom of all of his socks.

"Hey." I murmur, reaching my hand up to comb my fingers through his hair. He closes his eyes and rests his arms against his knees. His head slowly leans into my fingertips, encouraging the action.

"My dad died at 11:24 AM today." He laughs dryly, coming out with it immediately. "I found out an hour ago. Liver cancer, everyone's known for a month apparently."

My hand stops moving as I try to comprehend what he's saying.

"Mom called me an hour ago to tell me. She thought I should know. So I took a lot of drugs and now we're here."

"Thank you for calling me."

He nods tiredly. A deep breath escapes him.

"That's really hard, Wes."