Chapter 17 : Slipping Through
The track marks were fresh.
I stood in the doorway of our trailer at 11:30 PM, staring at my sister passed out on the couch, and everything I'd built over the past month crumbled to ash.
Vicki's arm hung off the edge of the cushion, sleeve pushed up, puncture wounds visible even in the dim light from the kitchen. Not pills. Not marijuana. Something worse. Something that required needles and burned bridges and the kind of commitment that ended in morgues.
I checked her pulse first. Steady. Too slow, but steady.
Then her breathing. Shallow. Regular.
She was alive.
I sat down on the floor beside the couch and pulled out my phone, Googling symptoms of overdose with hands that wouldn't stop shaking. Slowed breathing. Unresponsiveness. Blue lips.
Vicki's lips were pale, but not blue. Her breathing was slow, but not stopped.
She's okay. For now.
I stayed there all night.
Every few minutes, I checked her pulse. Her breathing. The color of her skin. I'd read somewhere that people could die in their sleep from respiratory depression, their bodies simply forgetting to breathe, and the fear of it kept me awake long past the point of exhaustion.
At 3 AM, Vicki stirred.
Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused, then found my face. Confusion gave way to recognition gave way to something that looked like shame.
"Matty..."
"I'm here."
She started crying.
Not the angry tears I'd seen after our mom left, or the frustrated tears from our fight in the cemetery three weeks ago. These were different. Broken. The tears of someone who knew they were falling and couldn't find a handhold.
"I'm sorry." Her voice was a ragged whisper. "I tried. I really tried."
I climbed onto the couch and pulled her into my arms. She was shaking—from the drugs or the emotion, I couldn't tell—and she felt so small. So young. Seventeen years old and already sliding toward a cliff.
"I know," I said. Because I did know. I'd watched her trying, these past weeks. Coming home for dinners. Drinking my bitter vervain tea. Texting me when she'd be late.
She'd tried. It just wasn't enough.
We sat there until dawn, not speaking, just breathing together. When the first gray light crept through the windows, Vicki finally pulled away.
"I'm not..." She stopped. Started again. "I'm not as bad as you think."
You're worse. You're so much worse, and you don't even know it.
I couldn't say that. Couldn't explain the weight of watching someone's tragedy unfold while knowing the script.
"Let me help," I said instead. "There are programs. Rehab places. I'll pay for it—extra shifts, whatever it takes."
Vicki's expression closed off. The vulnerability from moments ago vanished behind familiar walls.
"I'm not going to rehab."
"Vicki—"
"I'm fine." She stood, unsteady but determined. "Last night was a mistake. It won't happen again."
We both knew she was lying.
I made breakfast anyway. Toast and tea—the vervain blend, because at least she'd be protected from compulsion even while she destroyed herself other ways. Vicki ate mechanically, not meeting my eyes.
When she retreated to her room, I sat at the kitchen table and stared at my hands.
I could control blood. I could shape it into weapons. I could heal wounds in seconds.
I couldn't control my sister.
The realization sat in my chest like a stone. All my preparations, all my training, all my careful planning—none of it mattered if Vicki died from something I couldn't fight. Damon Salvatore was a monster I could plan for. Addiction was a monster that lived inside the people you loved.
Some things can't be controlled.
I cleaned up the breakfast dishes, checked on Vicki—sleeping again, but her breathing was normal—and went to my room.
The stakes under my bed gleamed in the morning light. Twelve weapons against vampires. Zero weapons against this.
I lay down on my bed and stared at the ceiling.
Seventy days until Stefan arrives.
The countdown continued. But for the first time, I wondered if it even mattered.
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