Tragic Magic (Ronnie Radke Love Story) [Book 2-sequel to The Drug In Me]

69. Fears (Mostly Ronnie)

**** I'm sorry for all that's happened, and all that's planned, but please don't give up! ****

*Ronnie*

I held her in my arms, looking out to all my friends, but not really seeing anyone, anyone but her.

Her.

Ryker.

I hate to be the one to bear the bad news, but I've fallen in love. Hopelessly, endlessly, desperately fallen in love.

Maybe it won't last. But maybe it will. I'm always on my toes with her-I never know what to expect. We could be at each others necks, or she could be all over me, touching and kissing, needy and desperate for me, I never knew. It could be anything with us.

I'm scared for her, she was so vulnerable, and I was just so terrified that she would fall back into drugs. I didn't want that, I just wanted her to be like me, to never feel the urge for it again.

Maybe it was because I overdosed and almost died, or maybe it was because I had gone to jail for drugs......among other things....... but I absolutely abhorred them now.

But her, I know she didn't feel the same. And that scared me to no end. She went to jail for drugs sure, but it was more of a side note, she mainly went to jail for the supposed 'attempted murder' of her sisters creep ex-boyfriend, whom she told me was trying to rape her sister. So maybe they weren't such an omen for her, more of a reminder of her old life. Maybe she missed them.

I hope she didn't miss them. But what if she did? What if she started doing drugs again? I would be mad sure, but I'd mostly be hurt that she would do that. And I would try to help her. But what of she wouldn't let me?

No , I wouldn't let her down this time. I didn't force her to let me help her when she was abused. I wouldn't do that again, if she started doing drugs again, I would force her to let me help her, I would fucking help her!

I would send her to rehab if I had to. I would help her. She would be clean, I wouldn't let her lose everything to drugs, not like I had. I wouldn't let her, I wouldn't!

When she got drunk, I was so mad, so mad at her! But I was also scared, scared that it would become a habit and that she'd become an alcoholic, always drunk out of her mind.

When she called me instead of drinking, I had realized how bad it was. She had been a mess, all tears and sobs. But I had also realized that maybe she could control it-she had called for me after all. I thought maybe she had a handle on it, maybe it was getting better.

But now I realized that that was improbable, impractical.

She was hurting, she was hurting really bad. She was always on the brink of crying, I could tell.

I had gone through her stuff, but I hadn't found anything suspicious, no little baggies, no spoons, no needles, no nothing. I just hoped I had been thorough enough. I hope she wasn't hiding anything....

Her nightmares had stopped, for now, and her night terrors were minimal, barely lasting, not like before. She was really bad before.

But I'm scared that maybe the reason she's not so tortured in sleep, is because she's becoming more tortured when she's awake.

Maybe she's dealing with all the pain when she's awake, so she's sleeping better because she's reliving it and experiencing it all in the daytime.

I tried not to think about it, but the image of her standing there in nothing but little shorts and a bra was stuck in my head. And not because I was turned on by her body bared-she had a great body, but that wasn't the reason.

It was the scars.

Scars upon scars upon scars.

Her body was covered with crisscrossing scars, scars on top of scars on top of more scars. Long, short, thick, thin. All kinds, more variety, more types than I could imagine were possible!

And there was a large, rectangular-type scar under her left chest, where a bullet had gone through her ribs. And a scar from where the bullet brushed against her arm, tearing through a few layers of skin.

A long scar running straight down her body. If whatever John used to make the cut that faded to the scar had been thicker then it could have gutted her and killed her!

I wanted to scream at myself, how could I have not noticed how hurt she was? I still beat myself up over it, I should've stopped the abuse! I should have followed her, I should've killed John, I should've- I don't know. I should've done more.

How could she have hidden that from me? There were so many scars, and that meant so many cuts. And bruises; they were gone now, but I could only imagine what her body looked like when John was hurting her daily.

Black and blue, red and purple, bruised and bloody. It was horrifying to imagine, and I knew it must've been worse than anything I could come up with in my head.

I should've done more for her! But I didn't...I let her go, I fell asleep every night and when I woke up I waited for her, but I never went after her, I was never able to stay up and follow her! I should've tried harder, I should've done more!

I drew her closer to me, my arms wrapping around her tighter. She must've noticed, because she lifted her head a bit.

I stared into her beautiful green eyes, looking at the yellow ringed around her pupils. She looked tired, really tired...

"Ronnie, what is it?" she asked me, licking her lips subconsciously. I sighed, trying to think of a way to say it.

I don't think 'hey, I'm worried that you'll do drugs, please don't do drugs or drink or anything' would work very well.

"It's just.....you know I'm here for you, right? No matter what. You can tell me anything" I said, biting my lip, worried.

I couldn't shake the feeling that something wasn't right with her....

"Thank you Ronnie" she said softly, smiling and looking down. I felt like she was hiding her eyes for some reason, but I couldn't very well tell her to look at me without starting something.

She leaned back against me, laying her head on my shoulder and chest.

She brought her arm up and distractingly played with my hair, humming to herself.

I worried for her.....I just hoped I was wrong.

*Ryker*

Did he suspect me? Did he know?

Shit, why did he have to say that?

Now I was freaking out.

What if he found my stuff?

What if he saw me?

What if he knew?

What would he do?

Send me to rehab?

Make me go clean?

Or kick me out in a fit of anger?

What would happen if he knew?

I didn't want to find out.....