Gray - By Pete Wentz Page 0,55

eyes, and when I rub them, I get blood on my face. I turn on the water and sit there, getting soaked, watching the blood wash away from my knuckles, staining my clothes. Martin knocks on the door, asking me what’s wrong. When I don’t answer him, his voice gets louder, and he says my name, telling me to let him in, but I just put my head in my hands and feel the water run down the back of my shirt. I don’t know how much time goes by—five minutes? An hour?—but then security comes and takes the door off its hinges, and a big, burly guy in a blue suit turns off the water and puts a towel around me while Martin and the rest of the guys stand in the living room. I sit on the corner of my bed, watching water pool around my sneakers while an EMT wraps my hand in gauze and shines one of those pocket flashlights in my eyes. He asks me what I’ve taken and I tell him I don’t know, and his partner knocks around the pill bottles by my computer. I laugh because while my body is shivering, my head is so, so hot, and I ask the EMT if steam is coming out of my ears. He doesn’t laugh and just goes “Uh-huhhhh” and calls me “sir” and asks me again what I’ve taken. The other guy is in the background holding up empty orange bottles, asking me if I took all of these, sir, did I take all of these, and I smile and lie and say, “Noooo.” Both EMTs go back out into the hallway and talk to the guys, then come back into my bedroom and tell me I’m borderline and they think I should go down to the ER and have my stomach pumped, but since I’m borderline, they’re leaving the decision up to me, and I tell them I’m fine and they respectfully disagree, tell me I should go with them, but I refuse again. They tell me that whatever I do, don’t fall asleep, and as they’re packing up their stuff, they tell the guys the same thing—whatever you do, don’t let him fall asleep. They leave and the guys take turns watching me sit in a chair. Occasionally I go into the bathroom and throw up, and pink puddles are on the floor, my blood mixed in with the water, and one of the guys stands in the doorway and watches as I stick my head in the toilet. By noon, I feel better, and everyone decides it’s probably okay for me to go to sleep, so I crawl into bed and sleep with my right arm elevated, since I’m still worried about the blood not clotting. When I wake up, I look at my damp clothes balled up in the corner and decide that I had probably overreacted. It was nice of the EMTs to come out though.

The Oakwood management, apparently concerned over the previous night’s events, have called the record label and demanded I move out. They also put an official-looking letter on my front door—typed and on letterhead and everything—that mentions such stuff like property damage and “inherited risk.” I think they’re overreacting, and I go tell the property manager that if he really wants to clean up this place, he should start with the hot tubs, but he won’t be swayed and I am shipped off to a hotel. The guys help me move, and our manager flies out to room with me. I can tell they are all annoyed with me, but they’re masking it with serious talk and “general concern.” Apparently, my little incident has morphed into “a cry for help,” so now there’s talk of my taking a little break from everything, since I’m clearly cracking up. I tell our manager that I’m fine, and I was just trying to get the blood off my hands, but he doesn’t say anything, just nods. I am suddenly seeing the shrink with the dangly earring daily. He’s gone serious on me now too. No more stories about Mötley Crèe and their AK-47s. He says I could’ve died from all the pills I took and that he can’t believe the EMTs didn’t take me to the psych ward for a seventy-two-hour hold. He tells me this is “very real” and that everyone just wants me to “get healthy.” I shoot back that if people are really worried