36. Brayden

Chapter thirty-six

Brayden

A s I approach the trailer park, the cloud that hovers over the park is thicker than usual. Every time I come here, the cloud seems darker and heavier. I need to get Bexley away from here. It's as if all the good in you is drained away the moment you step on the grass, although today isn't like that for me.

Trudging through the muddy grass, I try to keep the smile off my face with memories of Bohdi. Everything seems perfect when he's around. I can't help it; every time I think about him, a rush of warmth and happiness washes over me, and I can't stop smiling. He brings me joy and makes me believe I can achieve anything I set my mind to.

I don't know where I'd be without Bohdi now. I know it's going to take a lot of persuasion to persuade Bexley to stay with Bohdi but I know this is going to be the best thing for him. I just need to make him see that if I can get him away from this park, from my mom from these awful people and from the drugs I think he has a really good chance of overcoming this addiction. And I know Bohdi will be there for me every step of the way to help me as well as Bexley.

Last night's memory of saying I love you to Bohdi makes me cringe. I can't believe I blurted out those words. They've been replaying in my mind all night. Love, what a tangled, mysterious thing. I've never experienced it before. How would I even recognize it? According to Google, love hits you like a thousand emotions at once. A feeling you've never felt before. It's happiness, a lighter breath when your loved one is near, and an ache when they're not. Life suddenly loses its logic without them. And Bohdi? Well, he's turned my world upside down. Even those few days we didn't talk felt unbearable. But can love happen this quickly?

Earlier, I called and texted Bexley, but received no response. Now, standing at the trailer door, I'm assaulted by the familiar smell of alcohol and unwashed laundry. It makes my stomach turn every time I walk in here.

My so-called mother is absent, likely indulging elsewhere with Kyle. The cluttered kitchen, covered with used pans and dishes, prompts a mental note to tidy up—not for her, but for Bexley. As I step into the room, an unsettling feeling washes over me.

Something's not right.

Bexley lies half-covered, half-exposed, fast asleep at three in the afternoon. Perhaps his recent relapse has left him utterly drained? I approach, perching on the edge of the bed, and gently shake his leg. No response. His eyes remain tightly closed, no movement. The air thickens, and my heartbeat echoes in the silence.

"Bex," I murmur, shaking his leg again, desperation clawing at my chest. Still no movement. I shake him harder.

"Bexley!" I shout, but the room absorbs my voice. My heart thumps violently as I rise, crossing to the side of the bed. My trembling hand reaches for the cover, and that's when I spot the sickly stain on the pillow by his mouth. Panic surges through me as I yank the covers back, and something falls to the floor. A needle.

My fingers dig into Bexley's skin, shaking him franticly. "Wake up. Please, wake up!" I plead, but silence taunts me. I cradle the back of his neck, lowering my ear to his chest.

Nothing.

No heartbeat.

No movement.

His lifeless form lies before me. "Bexley, stop messing around!" I cry, my voice breaking. "Please, stop this." Desperation fuels me as I begin chest compressions. "Help me! Fucking someone, anyone, please help!" I cry,

"Remember when I hid in the wardrobe all day, and you thought someone had taken me?" My voice trembles. "You were furious when I finally emerged, vowing to get me back someday." Tears blur my vision. "Well, Bex, you've got me back now. Wake up. Please, wake up."

But the room holds its silence, and my world shatters around me.

"Shit," Daxton's voice pierces the room, his paleness mirroring my dread as he gazes at my hands pressed against Bexley's chest.

"Call a fucking ambulance," I plead, my voice cracking.

The world fractures around me. It's as if I'm an outsider, watching my own undoing. Bexley's life flashes before my eyes. The laughter, the shared secrets, the promises we made when we were young. We promised to explore the world together.

"London was your dream, Bex. Remember? You wanted to ride that giant Ferris wheel, see all of London from above. I said I would wait at the bottom because heights terrify me, but if you wake up, I swear, I'll ride it with you. Every stomach-churning moment. I swear." Tears blur my vision as I choke on a sob. I lean down, pinching his nose, covering his mouth with mine, desperate to breathe life into him.

"Stop playing games!" I scream. "Fucking Stop!"

My hands press against his chest, rhythmically, desperately. He's just messing around. He has to be.

"OK, London isn't enough," I babble, my laughter mingling with tears. "How about Reese's Pieces every day for a whole year? You can't resist that, right?" But my words echo in the silence, and I cling to hope, repeating it like a mantra: He'll open his eyes. He has to.

"BB for fucking life, Bex. For life!" I scream, my voice cracking. "This isn't life, Bex. Wake the fuck up. You owe me at least another sixty years."

My resolve crumbles, muscles turning to lead as I continue pressing down on his chest. Each compression feels like a desperate plea to the universe, bargaining for more time. But Bexley remains immovable.

"Remember when Mom told us once that after we were born, they placed us down next to each other. The first thing I did was turn my head to look at you and smiled? Five minutes old and all it took was one glance at you and I was content already. That still hasn't changed Bex." Sobs rack my body.

"Blink three times, please. Blink three times and let me know you're OK," I weep.

A gentle tug on my arm interrupts my frantic rhythm. A lady, her face blurred by my tears, pulls me away. My hands lose contact with Bexley's chest, and I watch as others sweep in, taking over. They surround him, taking over from my trembling desperation. Time hangs suspended, and I'm caught between disbelief and anguish. Bexley—my brother, my partner in mischief, my fucking twin—lies there, lifeless. The room pulses with urgency, but my world narrows to that unmoving form.

I whisper it again, a fragile chant: "Wake up, Bex. Please, wake up." But the silence mocks me, echoing through the shattered pieces of my heart.

"Bray." I hear Kal and Tray's voices, their tear-streaked faces etching pain into my soul. They stand in the doorway of our bedroom, where Bexley lies on the bed, surrounded by paramedics. Daxton retreats, fading into shadows. My legs waver, threatening to collapse, but Kal and Tray rush to my side. Their arms envelop me, holding me upright as my world crumbles. I bury my face in their chests, sobs racking my body.

"Please, Bexley," I whisper, my voice raw. "Come back." Over their shoulders, I glimpse the paramedics—desperate, skilled, repeating the motions I'd attempted. But Bexley remains still. Time stretches, a cruel elastic, and I cling to hope, even as it slips through my trembling fingers. He's still not moving.

"We got you, Bray." Kal's voice brushes against my ear. I watch as the paramedics falter, their movements suspended in cruel stillness. My world grinds to a halt alongside them. The lady who pulled me away—her eyes, brimming with sympathy, lock onto mine. She doesn't need to say it. He's gone. I sensed it the moment I stepped into this room. His soul, once tied to my life, has slipped away.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, her voice weighted with sorrow.

"We did everything we could. And so did you." Her eyes squint as if it physically pains her to say the next two words. "He's gone."

The world around me crumbles, surrounded by flames.

My brother, my twin, my best friend, is gone. In that burning moment, I realize life holds no purpose without him.