Whispers In The Dark

Robin

Robin

I tossed the pillow and blanket onto the couch and sat at the other end. I watched the last twenty minutes of some crime TV show, though I realized it was an utter waste of time because by the time it was over, I still had no idea what had happened.

I scanned the couch cushions and coffee table for the TV remote, already knowing that the channel buttons on the TV were broken. I searched under the coffee table, under the couch, and in the kitchen. It wasn’t anywhere. I considered just turning off the TV and going to sleep, but knew that I was too restless for that.

I had expected Reximus to be in his room, but I wasn’t too surprised to see the bathroom door shut with the light streaking out from under it. I had heard him crying in there three times in the past two weeks.

I knocked lightly on the door. “Rex?”

He didn’t answer. He wasn’t crying, either; no sniffles, nothing. I could vaguely hear him moving, but that was it.

I knocked harder. “Rex?” No answer. “Rex, say something!” I tried to twist the doorknob, but it was locked. “Reximus, open the damn door! This isn’t funny!”

Reximus retched and groaned.

“Damn it!” I screamed. I slammed my shoulder into the door for nearly a minute before my head cleared enough for me to realize that I was only succeeding in bruising my shoulder and causing a racket.

I remembered something my dad told me when I was seven and wanted to be a firefighter when I grew up. “If you have to knock down a door, kick near the doorknob, and lean into it. Your foot isn’t going to do it all for you, just keep it straight. You aren’t trying to kick someone in the leg, you’re trying to knock down a big wooden plank. It’s different.”

It took five tries for me to get the door open. If the lock had been new and stronger, it probably would have taken even longer.

Reximus’s mouth opened as the door hit the wall, like he was gasping for oxygen he couldn’t get. He spit up, vomit dribbling down his chin. The smell was strong and pungent in the small room, covering the toilet seat, floor, bathtub, and of course, Reximus.

I swallowed back the scream climbing up my throat and crouched in front of Reximus.

“Shit, shit, shit,” I mumbled. I looked Reximus in the eyes and cried, “Oh my God. What did you do?”

He shook his head weakly and lifted his hands just enough for me to see that he was pointing to his ears. He couldn’t hear me.

“I’m sorry,” I said. I stuck my fingers into his mouth to induce vomiting, though I was sure that he had already done plenty of it. His eyes closed and his body slumped forward. I started to shake.

“No, Rex, please, please, please, wake up,” I begged. “C’mon, Rex, please. Just open your eyes for me, please!”

I made him throw up into the bathtub. My hands held his shoulders and pulled his hair away from his forehead with vomit-stained fingers. His head was feverish.

I tried to remember something, anything, from Health class but the only thought coherent enough for me to make out was: wake up wake up wake up wake up wake up.

My cell phone was in the living room, but I knew that leaving him with his head over the bathtub wasn’t safe. I settle on lying him on his side, a towel under his head and the vomit somewhat wiped from his face. I ran to the living room and back, calling nine-one-one from the bathroom.

“What’s your emergency?”

I paced back and forth and said the last thing I had ever wanted to say: “My best friend tried to kill himself.”