Fuck this.
Fuck all of it.
“You’re doing better than you think,” she murmurs.
“Why’re you still here? Surely, you don’t want to see this.” I croak.
She doesn’t say anything for a while. “I told you. I made a choice. I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not worth it. I’m an asshole. I’m weak. I’ll just—” Another spasm of pain, worse, this time it makes me arch up off the bed and shout. “Fuck!”
She waits for the wave to pass, then wipes the sweat from my forehead like she’s done this a million times before. “You’re not weak, Travis. You just hate yourself so much, you don’t let anything in unless it’s pain.”
“That’s poetic as fuck. Write that down for the next album?” My teeth rattle from the force of my own laughter.
She laughs softly. “I think we could make a pretty epic song out of this. I think I’m doing okay at helping you, so that’s something.”
“You’re good at fixing broken things,” I mutter.
“I used to be,” she says, her voice low. “We’ll see how I am at it now.”
For a while she sits with me and neither of us says anything. The pain moves around inside me, sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, always present. I feel her get up, and I panic, but she’s just going to the kitchen because a second later she’s back with water and a banana and a Tylenol cradled in her palm. She holds the cup to my lips and I drink, and I hate how much I love her for that tiny act.
The day is a loop of fever dreams and shaking and Violet, always Violet, sometimes reading from her phone but mostly just watching me, like she knows if she lets her attention slip, I’ll disappear. The second night, when my teeth refuse to stop chattering, she slides under the covers beside me, pulls my body into hers like she can somehow take it away. I bury my face in the hollow of her chest, and she runs her fingers through my hair.
“I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.”
She stops moving her hand, and then whispers back, “Me too.”
And for a second it’s better than any high I’ve ever chased.
The third day is the worst. My head is splitting, I can’t keep anything in, and I’m just so angry. At everything. At the memories in this house, the way my body betrays me, at Amber’s picture on the dresser, at Violet for coming back, for leaving, fuck, for everything. I growl at her. I say shit that she doesn’t even flinch at, even though I can see the way it hurts her.
She still doesn’t leave.
Part of me wonders if I’m pushing her, just to see if she will.
When I’m done, the poison burns itself out. I croak a sorry, and she answers simply by pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Later, after I’ve half-slept and the pain recedes to a buzz, I come to and the room is dark and quiet, except for the sound of her breathing. She’s still here, on the floor beside the bed, knees curled to her chest, head tilted against the mattress like she tried to stay awake and lost. I ache at the love I feel for her. I don’t deserve it, but I want to. I want to.
I don’t even have the strength to reach out and touch her, to lift her into my arms and put her into the bed.
That feels really fucking empty.
But, when the sun rises, I’m still alive. The sheets are disgusting but I’m not shaking anymore. I crawl from the bed and tiptoe to the bathroom, run water over my face, stare at my reflection so long it starts to look like someone else’s. I brush my teeth. I put on a clean shirt from the pile she washed. When I walk back to the bedroom, she’s awake, her eyes wide and hopeful that I’m moving around.
“Thank you,” I say. Two words, not even big ones, but they weigh a ton.
“I told you I wasn’t going anywhere,” she whispers.
“It’s a long road from here, kid. You sure you’re up for it?”
She pushes to her feet, walking over and taking my face in her hands. “I do love a challenge.”
I smile, the first real one I have given in months.
Maybe things will work out, after all.