High Hopes In Low Places

Chapter Eight: Low Places

TRIGGER WARNING: GRIEF, VOMITING, DESCRIPTIONS OF DEATH/DECOMPOSITION AND WOUNDS, HOSPITALS, BRIEF DESCRIPTIONS OF CRITICAL INJURY, CHARACTER DEPICTED IN A COMATOSE STATE, RELIGIOUS BIGOTRY, ABANDONMENT, SURVIVOR'S GUILT

THIS IS NOT A STORY FOR THOSE UNDER 18, READER DISCRETION ADVISED

   Me and James ended up getting into an awful, very public verbal fight on the way back home. I was a mess, demanding him to take me to the hospital so I could make sure Tyler was still alive. He refused gently, no matter how loud either of us became. The whole trip was a blur, and I barely remember leaving the car when we did finally arrive at the flat.

I felt so hollow.

My knees felt like they were made of rubber and lead.

My stomach churned.

My head felt like pure static electricity.

I couldn't cry, I only got angrier--

That is when everything went flat. I shattered mentally, my vision cut out. I felt like I was floating, but my body met the ground; I couldn't tell where I was. I could hear, but it was like my head was shoved underwater in a tunnel and I had cotton in my ears. My mouth was dry, my body was weak.

Suddenly my ears began ringing and I reflexively sat upright, leaning all my weight on my elbow and vomiting, feeling defeated and broken. I started to cry as my stomach spasmed, hiccupping and gagging with every sob as my world became clearer. I saw James standing, fingers laced anxiously through his hair and holding onto me with his free hand. He had gotten a little bit of puke on him and was starting to look a bit green, but he was holding himself together. I sniffled, my chin helplessly quivering.

"What happened?" I asked quietly; my head had begun to pulse, threatening a headache.

"You fainted, Dare," he answered, "Lets get you inside, eh? You ought to lay down."

"I... I c-can't. Tyler, h-he--"

"Love, we're listed on his file to call in case anything happens." he assured me with lovingkindness.

"What if he... I mean- I-If... What if he's..." I could barely get the words out, my throat was aching, raw and sore, "...n-not... alive... a-anymore?"

James cautiously wiped away the little bit of puke he had on his arm before taking my hands and helping me to my feet. He kissed my forehead and rubbed his thumbs against my palms.

"I will be right by your side, whatever happens." he said, "I promise."

"Y-Yeah?"

"Yeah."

He took me inside and laid me on the sofa, covering me in the duvet I used to sleep with when I first started living here and placing an empty bin close to my line of reach.

"I'll put tea on." said James as he took off into the kitchen.

"Sounds lovely." I replied with much less enthusiasm than I really wanted to. I don't think James particularly cared at the moment given everything that's happened.

Every emotion felt too big and sharp and slippery for me to handle, and it made me feel like I was a child again in the worst of ways. It kills me inside so much to feel so fucking helpless. It's hard to breathe having my only option be wait for the phone to ring just to see if my best fucking mate was dead or alive. Watching one of my comfort movies wasn't even helping, and no matter how many channels on the television I clicked through I could not avoid hearing about the shooting over and over again. I couldn't escape the hospital dramas, I couldn't escape the religion channels armed to the teeth with their thoughts and prayers and their absurd belief in miracles.