Regret

Chapter 6: Christian

Andrew

This isn't funny, Andrew
Seen.

He calls me at 3:34. "What is wrong with you. Where are you? You were supposed to be home at three." He's on his bike, I can tell, but it's going so slow. He doesn't respond. "Andrew, it's not funny. Answer me right now. Where are you." His bike stops, and there's a crashing sound.
"I feel funny."
"Oh my god, Andrew. This isn't okay. What's going on." His breathing is heavy, and it's really slow. "Andrew, this isn't funny." I say again, grabbing my car keys. "I'm coming to get you, and I swear to God if you are shitfaced after just telling me you don't want to kill your liver, I'm going to kill you." His breathing is so slow now I can barely hear it. I keep talking going 72 in a 45 zone racing to where the GPS is taking me. He's not responding to me, and I can't hear anything anymore. I don't know where I'm going, just where it says he is. I see his bike laying on the side of the road, and he's right beside it. I pull over and look at the scene laid out in front of me. His bikes fine so he wasn't hit, but he's not wearing his helmet. I get out and walk over to him slowly.
"Okay, Andrew, I'm here. Get up." He doesn't respond. "Andrew, get up." I look at him seeing his eyes are closed and his right leg is stuck under his bike. There's something wrong. That's what's playing in my head over and over. I bend down and grab his wrist. It takes a minute to find his pulse, but he's alive. It's so slow, and there's absolutely something wrong. I pick up his bike to free his leg, but he doesn't move in the slightest. It's not broken, just bleeding. He's just drunk and tired.
"Okay, Andrew, please just work with me here, I need to get you home." I sigh, grabbing his arm to throw over my shoulders. He's too damn tall. I manage to get him up and bring him to the car. I physically have to lean him over the hood to open the passenger door and place him inside. I look at his bike, I can make it fit in the back of the truck later. I close the door and get in the driver's seat. I look over seeing him just lying there unconscious, and he looks surprisingly peaceful. I start to drive back to the direction of our house, going the speed limit this time. It's quiet in the car, it's really quiet. There's no breathing, no music, just silence. I look over at Andrew again. His chest is barely rising with every breath. He's going to be fine. I remind myself looking back at the road.
"Where's my bike.?" I hear so quietly beside me. His words are so slurred, but they don't sound like a normal alcohol slur.
"What happened." I glance over at him, trying to get a story.
"My bike. And Trevor, where's he." He says, sitting up, looking over at me.
"I don't know who Trevor is, and you're shitfaced drunk. Your bikes on the side of the road, and I'll get it tomorrow." He looks at me as if I have three heads.
"I'm not drunk. I didn't drink much. One shot. One fruity shit, and a small rum and coke." He says matter of factly. I look at him. It's not adding up. Even if he doesn't drink often, he should be able to handle that without being shitfaced. I watch his head fall to the side, and he's out again. I grab his wrist again, just to make sure. There's still a pulse, and he's still breathing. He is still alive. Hes with me and safe. I continue on our way home. The whole time, I'm trying to figure out what happened. Andrew can hold his liquor well, I know he can. He's responsible too, he wouldn't drink enough to be over the legal limit if he was driving home, which he was. He texted me just fine, and he keeps to what he says normally. If he says he'll be somewhere, he's there when he said he's there. He's got some sort of OCD with that type of shit. I go through every possible outcome in my head until it clicks. I look over at him. He was at the crappy club in town. The one that has been I the news at least 20 times for guys getting drugged there. Guys get drugged there. I look at the road and end up making a full U-turn speeding towards the hospital. He's drugged. It has to be that.