All I Ever Knew Was Your Name [Nick Robinson]

TWENTY SEVEN

roddy by djo

"Nick, where are you?" I ask with a trembling voice on my sixth or seventh voicemail. His phone is still on— it rings. He just doesn't pick up.

I growl, throwing my phone down on my bed. "Fuck!" I nearly shout, not caring if my mom hears me. "Fuck!"

My heart thuds heavily as I plan my next move. In my mind, I know there's not much time to think. Nick could be hurt, after all. He could be hurt bad. Who knows what his dad did to him? Who knows how angry he was over the fact that we just disappeared without a trace for four days?

Think, Mary! Think! I pace, my fingertips drilling into my scalp. My chest feels like it's ready to split in two, it aches so badly. I could throw up.

Where could he have gone without his car? The thought rattles through me. There's an answer that continues to linger, but it's too quick to go there. He's not dead, Mary. Get a grip. He's just busy or something. Right?

"What's going on?" I hear a voice from my bedroom doorway.

Spinning on my heels, I see my ever so tired mom rubbing her eyes with the back of her hand. Her blonde hair is a mess, and she looks like she hasn't slept in months. Still, she's concerned, regardless of our relationship (or, lack thereof).

My arms feel like dead weight as they hang to my sides. The staggered breathing fleeing my mouth is so choppy and quick that it immediately grabs my mom's attention a little more.

"Mary," she moves towards me, holding my upper arms in her hands. Her icy blue eyes browse mine as if to look for some kind of medical symptoms to identify what's wrong with me, but she won't find it. There's nothing physically wrong with me.

"Jesus, Mary!" she panics once the beginning of the many tears begin to slip down my cheeks. "Talk to me!"

"Mom," is all I say. I crumble into her next, feeling like I did when I was four years old and we lost my dad. It's the last time she held me this way while I wept. I almost forget what it's like to be held by someone other than Nick.

Oh, god. Nick.

The thought of him makes me sick. The thought that he could be in danger and I can't help him makes me want to fall to a puddle of nothing on the floor.

Her hands tremble gently as they run through my hair in an attempt to soothe me.

"Come on. Tell me what's wrong," I hear the panic in her voice.

"Mom, I think something really bad happened," I start, a mouthful of her blue cardigan bringing me to stammer on top of the heavy, deep cries leaving my throat. "Something I should have stopped. I should have— I tried to, but he wouldn't let me."

"Shh, you've got to breathe, Mar. Breathe."

I do just that. Don't think it's so simple— I'm nearly choking on each breath in. A part of me feels that I deserve it for not helping Nick more than I should have.

"The neighbor, Mom," I finally spew out, crying so hard that it physically hurts me. "He's in danger. It's all my fault!"

"Who? Greg?" she asks.

I want to puke at the sound of his name. "No! Fuck him! He's the problem, Mom! He's hurting Nick!"

"What do you mean?"

Then, it happens. A long, consistent, never ending flow of straight word vomit. I promise him I'll never tell a soul, but I'm so beyond afraid for his well being that I don't know where else to go. I can't suppress what I know. Especially when someone I love so deeply is getting hurt.