Chapter Text
TW!: drug addiction & insomnia
PROLOGUE ONE
ROMAN
Hot metal sears my skin. I press my arms between my knees, desperate to avoid the walls of the locker. It’s useless. The heat isn't even the problem anymore. It's the soot sticking to my throat and the smoke crushing my lungs.
I never imagined I’d die like this.
I try to scream, but the second I open my mouth, I regret it. Foul ash coats my windpipe. I spit to the side, gasping, only to be hit by another coughing fit.
I can’t breathe.
My chest heaves as if I’m being struck by a battering ram. I’m starving for the smallest crumb of oxygen.
I never expected to die a hero’s death, surrounded by family or growing old in peace. But I thought I’d at least go out with some dignity. This? This is pathetic.
Miserable. Weak.
Still, it was nice to hope.
I reach for the locker door again, hoping the lock has weakened. My fingers press against the boiling metal for a few seconds, and a scream tears through my throat. I don't know where I found the strength for that sound, but pain has a way of doing that to a person.
I look at the fingers of my right hand; they’re literally burning. My skin feels like it’s being peeled off alive.
Stupid.
Even the tears falling from my squeezed-shut eyes feel too hot. I can't open my eyes, so I visualize them instead.
I think of my mother, who will be destroyed because of me. My dad, whom I’ve disappointed. My sister Vivi, a copy of my mother, who sometimes doesn't even bother to hide the fact that she loves me less.
I wish I had a reason for dying that would make them proud. Saving a child, a patient, or even saving the fucking country—but I’m too much of a coward to even join the Army. Doing something worthy of my last name.
But no. I’m Roman King. And I’m going to die in a stupid fire, trapped in a locker by bullies I couldn't even stand up to.
I can almost see my dad’s face souring when they tell him the news at my funeral. I wish I could tell him I’m sorry. Despite everything, I wanted to see him one last time. To talk. To see my mother and my sister. And of course, Rhys.
More than anyone, I’m terrified of disappointing Rhys. So, just so he knows I tried, I act on reflex. I gather every ounce of strength left in me and hurl a kick at the door of the metal furnace.
See, Rhys? I’m trying. I’m sorry anyway.
My vision is blurring. I hear noises—shouts and footsteps approaching the locker.
But before I can focus, a headache turns my world pitch black. I can’t take it anymore. I have no strength left to fight for a breath.
It always ends the same way.
I wake up in my cold bed, drenched in sweat. It’s always the same.
Six years. Six years of seeing the same nightmare over and over again.
I roll to my left and check the red light of my digital clock. It’s only 00:23.
“Fuck,” I mutter into the void. The night is still young, and I won’t be able to sleep again. Every time I surrender to sleep, it happens. I find myself back in that hell, in the middle of that fire.
If I want a dreamless sleep, I either take a pill, get wasted, or get high.
I can’t take a pill. Rhys knows I only have one pack left; if he notices a sleeping pill missing tonight, he’ll chirp to my mother.
I can’t get drunk; there’s nothing in the house.
I could get high, though. I have some under the nightstand. At the back of the fourth drawer, right next to the jar of coconut milk powder in the kitchen.
But I won’t. The more I lie to myself about how "in control" I am, the better.
Besides, I don't even want to sleep.
I get up abruptly and flip on the dim light of the tiny kitchen in my oversized apartment. My joints ache so badly I have to lean against the wall for support, otherwise, I’ll collapse.
I force my gaze away from the jar of coconut milk powder. My fingers are itching to reach for that solace, but I don't want the demons to win tonight.
It’s my dad’s birthday today. I promised myself: no drugs today. It’s only been half an hour since the day started, but a promise is a promise.
I hit the button on the kettle to boil water. The blue light spills out into my small kitchen.
I close my eyes for a moment and listen to the hum of the kettle. I repeat my breathing exercises. After a minute and a half, I realize I can’t do this.
I quickly hit the button to turn the kettle off and head back to my bedroom. I trip over something in the hallway, but I’ll deal with that later.
I don’t like breaking things—the more furniture I have, the more hiding spots I get. That’s the only reason I keep this place so big.
Back in the room, I find my phone in the dark.
As soon as I pick it up, I realize I’m shaking. I take a deep breath, making sure "the oxygen rushes into my lungs." One of my stupid therapists told me that. I don't remember her name. I just remember she was a fake blonde in her fifties.
The screen’s light cuts through my bloodshot eyes like a knife. My finger moves independently, tapping the name pinned at the top of my contacts. The sun must have just set in New York, or maybe it’s rising; time has no meaning for me. But I know the hour doesn't matter to him.
Exactly as I expected, he picks up after two rings. His calming voice fills my silent bedroom.
“Hey. How’s the night treating you this time? You looking for a tea recipe, do you want to talk, or do you just want to listen?”
My lips curl involuntarily. I can feel the voices in my head finally quiet down. The nightmare fades, and the demons whispering the locations of my stashes retreat into their dens.
“None of the above. I called to say happy birthday, Uncle.”
He laughs. His laughter is fatherly, humble, and soothing. It feels like home.
We’re all heading back to New York for the birthdays anyway, but maybe I should fly out before my siblings. I can skip my morning classes. I miss my uncle. If I show up at some absurd hour, my mother will be suspicious well, she’ll be happy, -I suppose— but she’ll definitely be suspicious.
When Uncle Bran realizes I don’t want to talk about me, he mentions a deal he signed to have a few of his paintings shown at an exhibition in New Orleans. He sounds so excited.
He doesn't bring up my art, of course. I haven't liked anything I’ve drawn in six years. I only do it for the muscle memory.
There used to be colors. Now, my hand only reaches for dark tones. It’s like everything before them has been erased from my memory. My dad says there’s a beauty in that, too.
But I want my colors back.
I’m irreversibly broken, though. Colors only return in my dreams—the good ones. Those dreams make me feel like I’m breathing.
When I wake up from them, I feel repaired.
But every time I sleep hoping for those dreams, that goddamn nightmare crawls out from its hiding place and steals my rest. Once I’m awake, I’m awake for good.
The earliest I can fly is at seven. That means I’ll be on the phone for a long time —probably until my uncle gets sleepy, or until Uncle Niko kidnaps him for some "alone time."
Then, I’ll be alone with the venomous insinuations of my demons. I’ll wait for sleep to come. And it won't.