Wrong Guy

37 | never worth the vodka

Episode Thirty-Seven:
NEVER WORTH THE VODKA

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E L L I O T T ' S  P O V :

"Do I know you?" I ask, finding the return to my apartment far less pleasant than it should've been. The man in front of my door, strangely familiar with dark hair, and even darker eyes.

"We've met," He says, before looking back to the door of Fawn's apartment, "She gonna be home soon?" He gestures to the door across from my own, before looking back to me expectantly.

"I don't know," I state hesitantly, "But what I do know is I just got outta the fucking hospital, so I'd appreciate if you took a few steps to the right."

I shove him over to get to the door, but he grabs my forearm, hands tense when he asks the question again, "Elliott, tell me where my bloody sister is before this gets ugly,"

Sister.

So this, this is why he's familiar. This is Emerson.

"You know, you have some nerve coming here," I tell him.

"My family lives here, I have every right to come and visit."

"No, you don't. You haven't visited since the day they moved here, and you're certainly not about to change that. You're here, for your sister, the sister that has only talked about you while next to tears," I finish, "So, I'd suggest you get the hell out of here before you prove her point."

"You son of a bitch, know nothing about me."

"He knows enough," Fawn's voice echoes through the halls, as she slowly emerges from the rusty old elevator. Her hair's up in a bun, the tips of her ears visibly red, and frostbitten as she takes off her mittens and scarf.

"We need to leave," Emerson states, about to drag her with him back to the elevator, but she protests. She pushes against his chest, as he attempts to move her with nothing but his body weight.

"Stop! I'm not leaving!" she yells, and he stops in his tracks and looks at her disapprovingly.

"You promised you'd help me." he seethes, a growl on the brink of emergence as he attempts to pull her out to the elevator again.

"Emerson, not right now. It's nearly midnight, and I'm returning to school tomorrow," he continues to push her forward into the elevator, "I said to stop this! Not now, not in front of him!" she yells pushing back against his chest.

"You said you'd help me find a place to live. You're going to help me when I want you to."

She stops fighting against him, and stands, surrounded by the silence that echoes through the halls its impact stronger than any scream. I step forward to pull her away from him, reaching out to grab her hand, but she shakes it away, instead choosing to stare at the person she shares blood with, a mother, a father with. A person who left her, and her family in the dump that is this apartment, never knowing what it's like to live, questioning where your next meal comes from.

"You're drunk," she whispers, eyes rimmed in crimson before he can say a word.

"Fawn," it's this moment I notice the slur in his words, and how he's been covering it with a growl. With a gravelly undertone that could fool anyone into thinking he could do harm, but he was as powerless as his revealed defense mechanisms.

"Don't - don't talk to me," she looks up at him, her face not one of melancholy or fear, but of disappointment, "How long, how long since you started up again?" she asks.