The Other Side by Kim Holden
To quote “My Blood”
by Twenty One Pilots,
“I’ll grab my light and go with you.”
You are not alone.
Prologue of nightmares
Past, June 1985
Toby
Once in seventh-grade health class, I performed CPR on a dummy. I wasn’t particularly dedicated to the experience or my technique, but I vividly remember the unnatural drag of chapped lips against an alcohol-swabbed, rubbery mouth and the lazy pressure of palms against a pliable, equally as lazy rib cage. My counting was sloppy. My armpits were sweaty with the judging eyes of my teacher in my peripheral, and my cheeks were hot with the ridiculing snickers of my classmates in my ears. I also remember the thought creeping into my mind—and my addled, overprotective subconscious trying to force it out as I tried to ignore the whole embarrassing scene—that this go-through-the-motions-worst-case-scenario bullshit lesson couldn’t possibly be anything like the real thing.
I was right.
It wasn’t.
*
When I was sixteen, in a hellhole house in Wash Park, I performed CPR on the only person I’d ever loved unconditionally. My lips were covered in tears; her mouth was coated in blood. Each breath I forced into her limp, lifeless shell sucked out what remained of my tattered soul, but I would’ve gladly surrendered it if it meant trading my life for hers.
The first five minutes my counting was precise, my hands clasped one atop the other, thrusting the heel of my palm down into her sternum with determined execution. I remember the first thrust being met with the unexpected resistance of rib cage that made me stutter with the hesitation of not wanting to inflict more harm on her frail, decimated body. That was quickly replaced by the incessant, bloodcurdling commands freely flowing from the overbearing, but almost nonexistent optimistic corner of my mind, Do it or you’re going to lose her! The thrusts deepened, the sensation of the protective cage of bone bowing to a point near breaking brought bile to the back of my throat, but my pace remained steady.
The second five minutes I abandoned counting. And pace. Breaths were sobs exhaled between desperate ultimatums and threats into her lungs from mine.
“You can’t leave me, Nina! You can’t! I can’t do this without you! If you go, I go!”
Thrusts were fueled by desperation but felt powerless. She was gone and I knew it.
Inescapable despair, hopelessness, and reality slipped in through the door on the backs of the paramedics answering my 911 call, like thieves in the night sent to negate their own well-intentioned efforts.
I conceded and they took over the futile attempt to save our lives. Or take them.
Nina was already dead.
And though my heart was still beating, so was I.
Part One
One Side of the Story
Chapter One
Two years later…
Present, February 1987
Toby
I’m an asshole. Ask anyone. It’s a fact; predictable, like the sun rising in the east every morning and setting in the west every night.
“You’re an asshole, Toby.”
Told you.
I don’t respond, because my roommate, Cliff, will continue. The only thing Cliff likes more than the sound of his own voice is stealing. His fingers are stickier than a toddler with an ice cream cone on a hundred-degree day. I just walked in the door from school and he’s standing on the inside, not the side I prefer him on, of my bedroom door with the padlock that should be securing it from invasion in one hand and a cassette tape in the other. I suspected he could pick locks; I really don’t like being proven right in this case. Glancing at the rosary beads resting against his chest, framed between two upraised hands, I wonder, once again, if he’s aware he’s a hypocrite or if he’s just comfortable with the fact. I’m guessing it’s the latter, but with him, it’s hard to tell.
He rattles the cassette in his left hand hard enough to get my attention but not hard enough to damage his precious Sex Pistols. “I’ve been looking for this for two weeks. Two weeks, you asshole.”
“Forgot I had it.” I didn’t forget. I’ve been listening to it every night while I draw. It’s a copy of a copy…of a copy…the quality so horrible that I have to turn the volume on my boom box up to twenty, and even then, Johnny Rotten’s angry rants sound like gentle whispers. Normally, Cliff steals brand new cassettes from the Record Bar store at the mall because, according to the symbol drawn in permanent black marker on the back of his denim vest, he’s an anarchist who likes “sticking it to the man.” Which again seems at odds with the rosary around his neck—hypocrite, I’m telling you. It’s more likely because Record Bar has no security cameras, unlike the indie music store, Wax Trax, in our neighborhood. That, and there’s a code among thieves: no one steals from Wax Trax. It just isn’t done. This Sex Pistols tape is a sacred exception to his I steal everything rule; he paid good money for it. Money he stole, but still money. He brags endlessly that it’s a recorded copy of the original vinyl that belonged to Malcolm McLaren’s cousin’s sister, or something like that. I guarantee you it isn’t, but it’s a waste of time to try to argue logic with him. He’s not the brightest crayon in the box.