Two Cans and a String

“Imogen,” He slurs, an edge of confusion laced in through his voice, “What’re you doing here?” And then he smiles knowingly, “Did you and Will finally-”

“This is my house,” I interject calmly, guiding him through the doorway, past the living room where I’d been watching my movies and into the dining room where I force him into one of the chairs. He’s in rough shape, barely able to prop himself up with his elbows. The blood on his face is mostly dry, though I spot a slice in his left eyebrow and the surfacing of bruises along his cheekbone as well. I decide to keep him talking as I dart around the kitchen, digging through drawers for various wraps and gauzes. “Tell me what happened.”

He moans, “Party,” and something along the lines of, “Man, I’m so fucked up right now,” but it’s hard to tell for sure because of how the syllables run together.

I toss the first aid articles I manage to scavenge onto the table in front of him then rush to the sink for some water. Jameson’s head lolls from shoulder to shoulder and it’s obvious that the worst of his drunken state is only hitting him now. ”Keep talking,” I speak over my shoulder.

But Jameson is not like his brother and the cup is nearly full when a hard thud echoes through the room. I jump and the glass clatters into the sink, a crack appearing down its side. Turning, I see that Jameson has passed out. His head dropped forcefully against the table, causing the only undamaged part of his face - his nose - to explode with blood.

“Shit,” I mutter, “Shitshitshitshit.” This is the drunkenness of a sixteen year old who’s only been to probably three parties before and it scares the hell out of me. I have to remind myself to stay calm which is rare and nerve-wracking in itself. I’m not one to lose composure. There’s only one time that I can think of it really happening and reliving that memory forces my pale skin to run red with embarrassment.

Somehow, I manage to squeeze myself between the boy and the table, squatting in front of the chair. Using my forearm to support his limp torso and my other hand to brace his neck, I push the chair toward the wall behind it, inch by inch. Jameson’s blood is warm as it trickles down my wrist, and I squeeze my eyes shut in an attempt to forget about it. Once we’re a fair distance away from the table, I stand, propping Jameson’s body upright by pressing his face into my belly. I cup my hands under his armpits and slowly drag him sideways toward the hardwood floor, putting him in the recovery position.

Adrenaline is pumping through my veins. My shirt is damp where Jameson’s face was so I tug on the hem to unstick it from my body. With him on the ground, I stop to inhale until my lungs feel about to burst and slowly release the air in an attempt to steady my heartbeat. Then I tug the cordless phone off its dock and punch in Will’s number, hoping he’s gotten home safely from his own party and is a sufficient mental state to come deal with his brother.

His voice emerges on the second ring, rough and distant; laden with sleep. “Yeah?”

“Will, it’s me... Imogen.” I inhale again for what seems like only the second time in minutes. “I need you to come to my house.”

“What happened? Are you okay?” He’s alert now. I imagine him propping himself onto his elbows, now acknowledging his blanket as it tumbles off the edge of his mattress. Hunting in the dark for his glasses.

“I’m fine.” I don’t want to give him this news. That his little brother is beaten and drunk and unconscious on the hardwood floor my parents installed two weeks ago. So instead I just say, trying to maintain a lighthearted tone and failing miserably, “We just have a little bit of a situation.”

He doesn’t even take the time to breathe. “I’ll be there in five minutes.” And then the phone clicks shut.