Losing Control : His Madness, His Cure Chapter 82

The walks to school weren’t endless anymore. The nights weren’t so quiet.

And Andrew....he smiled sometimes. Not wide, not long. But enough. Enough that I knew I’d done something right by sticking with him. He was my first real friend. My only. And suddenly… the world didn’t feel like one long hallway with no doors.

Months passed. The bullying kept up, sure. The foster mom’s moods swung like a pendulum. But we found a rhythm in between the cracks. It almost felt survivable.

Until that night.

The house was empty except for me and Andrew. The girls were out, the foster mom was gone. Then he came. The boyfriend. Stumbling in, stinking of booze, slamming the door like he owned it. His face was twisted, red, drunk rage spilling out before he even opened his mouth.

“Where is she?” he demanded. Voice thick, ugly. “Where the fuck is she?”

We didn’t know. We told him we didn’t. That only made it worse. His words got sharper, more slurred. Nonsense threats about how she’d pay for fucking some other guy, how we’d pay. Then his hands shot out...too fast. He grabbed Andrew by the collar and slammed him to the floor so hard the sound cracked through the house.

I froze. Just for a second. Long enough to see Andrew’s face turning red under the weight of his hand, his legs kicking, his fingers clawing at the grip around his throat. The asshole muttered curses as he pressed down, like Andrew was the one who’d betrayed him.

I jumped in, tried to pull him off, but he was dead weight, a slab of rage too heavy for me to move. My fists on his back didn’t do shit. My ribs screamed when he threw me aside.

And then I saw it. The cast iron skillet, sitting on the stove. Just waiting patiently.

And suddenly it was Father Elias all over again. That same dark voice, dripping with venom, slithering through my head..."Handle it yourself. No one’s coming. No one ever comes"

And this time....I fucking listened.

I grabbed the skillet. My hands were shaking, but my grip was tight. I raised it high, brought it down hard on the back of his head. The sound was sickening...dull, final. But he didn’t stop. So I swung again. And again. And again.....

I don’t know how many times. The world narrowed to the sound of iron meeting bone, to the splatter, to Andrew gasping for air under the weight that finally went slack. My arms burned, my chest heaved, but I couldn’t stop until there was nothing left to fight.

When it was over, the skillet slipped from my hands. My knuckles were white, trembling. He lay there, still. Too still. Blood seeping into the floorboards.

Andrew was coughing, dragging in air like he’d never tasted it before. His eyes were wide, scared...not of the guy, but of me.

And I realized, I’d done it. I’d killed someone.

Death had a voice that night. It didn’t whisper, it called. Low and certain, like it already knew my name. Like it had been waiting for me all along.

I remember the body. The way the light caught on that pale skin, the stillness of it, the silence that hung too loud in the room. I didn’t bother checking for a pulse....I didn’t need to. I could feel it. Gone. Just gone.

Andrew’s voice cracked through the air, thin and trembling. “Is…is he dead?”

I looked up at him then. His eyes, wide with fear, rimmed with the kind of panic that begged for someone stronger to say it wasn’t real. Like I held the answers, like I was supposed to make sense of the mess at our feet. And for the first time in my life, I realized it had to be me. Me, standing there with blood on my hands, heart thundering like it wanted to rip itself out of my chest. He was mine to protect, no matter how fucked the world was, no matter what we were standing in.

I told him, steady as I could, not to worry. That I wasn't gonna let anyone hurt him ever again. The words tasted like a vow I had no business making, but Andrew believed me. Sweet, broken Andrew, with those sad eyes that looked like they’d stopped asking for anything a long time ago. He trusted me, even like this. Even with death sprawled between us, even with the red soaking into my skin. With his silence and his brokenness. Like my word alone was enough.

Inside I was unraveling....my breath hitching, my head pounding, a scream I wouldn’t let out clawing at my throat. But regret? No. There was no regret. Only the iron certainty that we had to go.

I told him we couldn't stay there, grabbing his arm. Said the cops would come, and they never listen to kids like us. That we had to run.

And Andrew...he didn’t argue, didn’t flinch. Just nodded, soft as a prayer. I still remember his words, shaky but determined. “Okay. I’ll go with you. We’ll figure it out.”

That was the moment we tied ourselves together, not out of choice, but out of survival. Two kids with nowhere to go, running from everything, chasing nothing.

Now I lie here in this bed, the silence pressing in after Nate’s voice finally dies away, and it all crashes back. That night. That vow.I see it all over again. The blood, the fear. The way my promise hung between us like a chain. My chest aches with the memory of it. Because most nights, I wish I’d left him there. Wish I hadn’t dragged him with me into my chaos, into my fate.

That I’d walked out alone, let death keep whispering to me, let it drag me under like it wanted.

Instead, I dragged him with me. To nowhere. To nothing. To a destiny that only ever felt like an open grave. And that voice in my head...the one that’s always whispering that death isn’t done with me yet...it still hasn’t gone quiet.