The Good And The Forbidden

Chapter Five

Ted's here. Ted's here. Ted's here. Ted's here.

The words run through my head over and over again, like some sick, twisted mantra.

Ted's here.

There's no escaping him.

Whoever it is that he's speaking to, the person is clearly not pleased. "You're derrr idiuhhhhht, bruuhhh..."

The voice is softer than Ted's snappish tone, but maybe that's just because whoever it is clearly had too much to drink. Is it a guy? It sounds like a guy's voice. But with all the slurring, I can't be too sure.

"God damn it!"

Instinctively, I cringe at Ted's bad language, although by now I've grown kind of used to it.

I'm still sitting down, but right now, I feel safer like this. Sure, the occasional drunkard trips on me, but for the most part, nobody, especially Ted, seems to really notice me. And that's how I like it.

Now that I have something to focus on, I feel myself calming down a little. My heart rate is starting to mellow into a more normal tempo, and my burning eyes are more relaxed and dry, Even the pain in my arm where people keep insisting on kicking me seems duller somehow.

I narrow my hearing and twist my head, hoping to see Ted. I have to squint, though, before the person in question comes into view. The sun's completely gone now, and everything is dark. But Ted pulls out a lighter and holds it up to a cigarette.

I grimace. But I stay silent. As much as I hate it, here, what I say won't make a difference. If I try to speak up against this, any of this, I'm almost certainly going to make things worse for me.

So I clench my fists and clench my teeth. And I don't say a single word.

Ted yanks a bottle out of his friend's hand and tosses it to the ground. It hits a rock and shatters, dripping the filthy liquid and soaking the sand. I can't see Ted's face very well, but I can tell by his tone and the way all his muscles are tensed that he's angry.

No, that's not it. He's not angry. Ted is borderline furious.

"What the hell is wrong with you? Or do the words designated driver mean nothing to you?"

"Den...des...denigsilate..."

The cigarette goes spiraling out of Ted's hand and onto the floor, thankfully away from the alcohol. It sputters out, and Ted uses his free hands to slam both his hands into the chest of his friend, who, in his drunken state, tumbles down helplessly. He makes a little oomph noise, but Ted doesn't seem fazed.

"For all your talk about lying low and all that shit, you're the biggest damn hypocrite I've ever seen!"

My entire body cringes and shrinks away, terrified.

I'm not the only one. Ted's friend, whoever it is, stares up at Ted, fear in his eyes.

And he starts crying.

I can't move.

Ted keeps glaring at him, uncaring. But the friend just starts sobbing uncontrollably. I can't tell if he's even truly aware of what Ted is saying, but he starts blubbering out the words, "I-I'm sorry!" Tears sputter down his cheeks, and I'm paralyzed.

Ted stares at him.

And then he sighs, the smallest of breaths puffing out of his lips. He runs a hand through his hair, and his eyes soften.

And he sticks his hand forward, offering to help the other one up.

I can breathe again.

"Don't be sorry," he says, voice softer and more sincere than I've ever heard. "Drink all you want. I'll drive." He hoists the other guy up and folds his arm. "I'm on probation, anyway."