Page 193 of The Coldest: Stay Dangerous Part 2

“Go back in your room until I come get you!” I yell, and only blink when I hear his door close again.

Aunty’s eyes are nearly black, she’s so pissed. Basically vibrating a few feet in front of me.

“You, Patience, and Turkey have been arguing so bad that my nephew had to hide in the closet and call me to get him. So, that’s what I’m going to do. He’s going to stay with me to cool off, while you all handle whatever the fuck is going on in here. I know you like to think you’re okay, but you’re not. You’re never okay, Auty, and you’re grown enough to handle that. But what you’re not gonna do is fuck up your kids like Amani and Aaron fucked us up.”

A distressed sound leaves her mouth, as she blinks tears away. Her sleeve covers her hand as she wipes her face.

“They deserve better than what we got. Deuce doesn’t need to see this shit. And the way you strangled me before, I absolutely will shoot off your big toe if you don’t let my nephew leave this fucking house.”

My feet guide me slowly backward until I hit the hallway. Only then do I put the gun back in Ju’s purse and powerwalk to Deucey’s room.

He’s at the door, opening it before I can reach the doorknob. Even though he’s nearly to my chest, he seems so small right now, eyes red as he tries to keep his backpack on his shoulder. I take his hand and lead him back through the house to the living room.

“You wanna say bye to your parents, Deucey?” I ask him.

He shakes his head no, keeping his eyes on the ground, so we keep walking. They wanna be upset, they can beat each other up.

“Mars is in the car with his mommy. I’ma go see about your mom and then I’ll be right out.”

Not waiting for a reply, I nearly shove him inside the back seat before closing him in and marching back into the house.

The living room is cleared out, so I make my way to Auty’s bedroom. Knocking once, I crack the door, before going all the way in and closing the door behind me.

Auty probably threw herself onto the bed, the way she’s sprawled out, sobbing violently into her comforter. It doesn’t move me. Not now, not when the similarities between her and our mother are so glaringly obvious, even I can’t explain them away.

I walk over to the edge of the bed that is closest to her, and kick it as hard as I can. “Get up.”

“Go away, Wynnie,” she sobs, half-heartedly waving me off. My fingers curl around her hand, and I yank her halfway off the bed.

“No! You’re gonna get the fuck up and you’re gonna tell me what’s going on, now!” I yank her again, stumbling as she falls off her bed.

“God, just leave me alone!” She stays face down on the floor, crying harder than I’ve ever seen her.

Rolling my eyes, I text Ju to take the boys to my house, and give her the code to my private elevator. Setting my phone and Ju’s purse on her nightstand, I take a seat on the side of her bed.

“Auty,” I drawl. “You gotta give me something. This isn’t just grief. What the fuck is going on, Autumn Night?”

She curls into the fetal position, facing the nightstand. With a shaky finger, she points to the bottom drawer.

“All the way… at the bottom,” she whispers, almost like I’m peeling her back with a knife.

I drop to my knees and tear open the drawer, shoving random papers and bullshit out of the way until I see a manila folder with her full name written in elegant handwriting. I don’t even close the drawer before I start flipping through the papers inside.

Understanding Your Diagnosis

All these articles and diagrams and best therapy practices. Referrals for therapists that specialized in Dialectal Behavior Therapy. Placating terms. Testimonials. Further information…

“Auty,” I whisper, my voice unable to rise any more. “When did this happen?”

“Apparently, I’ve always been crazy,” she spits, fresh tears puddling beneath her face. “I go to therapy, and do everything right, and then they tell me I have that, and that they can’t see me anymore. That I need something more ‘specialized.’ Not even medication, like Shaddy. Just special talks and sent me on my way. I’m defective, Wynnie. I try, I really do. But… I just get so angry, and I want everyone to feel how angry I feel. And then I can’t stop, even when I want to… trust me, I know everyone hates me. I hate myself, too. I always have.”

I place all the papers back in the folder and leave it on the bed, sliding down until I’m on the floor next to my sister. She crawls to me until she’s in my lap, and my fingers rub across her baby hairs.

“Life has been unfair to us since we were born, Auty. All the things you’ve been through, you were bound to have more than a few scars both inside and out. But you can’t run away from your shit. And that includes wanting medication to numb yourself when the papers say you need talk therapy. I thought you’d see from me that we have addictive personalities.”

“Be serious, Wynnie,” she snaps softly.

“I am being serious. You may have a warped sense of our childhood, but I don’t. And there’s no reason Deucey and Rue should be hearing you guys go at it like that to the point he’s calling me. There’s no reason why, as a medical professional, you’re not taking this shit seriously. That shit sounds serious, Auty… and it’s only gonna get worse. Promise me first thing tomorrow you’ll make an appointment.” Pressure builds behind my eyes as my hand rests on her cheek. “If not for yourself, then do it for your kids. For your husband and wife who love you… do it for me. Because you didn’t force me to get sober just to lose yourself to some shit from our past.”