Weightless

24) Angry Tears

They're going to kill me.

I'm going to be sent to hospital.

We're going to argue but I don't want to anymore.

When the vomit runs out and they rush in, he expects a fight. Shouting. Sobbing.

But there isn't anything.

They don't talk about it. Nobody even brings it up. It's not used as ammunition, it's not made into a venue of worried and unwanted conversation, they don't ask why; it's simply tied up into a knot and left. The aftermath is dealt with, and silently.

The only immediate consequence is that Ethan feels ill for a long time, right in his stomach. It doesn't go away. Mollie sits with him in the bathroom, letting him rest his head on her lap as their legs go cold on the floor. As his legs go numb, he does too. Her arm strokes him ceaselessly, shushing him like he's crying when he's not. They do that whilst Cal scrapes plates off and slams cupboard doors closed in the kitchen next door.

After, he goes to sleep. He hears them talk. One of them is upset. Ethan isn't, despite thinking he would be when he was alone. Instead he stays awake until early morning, his eyes burning, until his stomach squeezes.

His knees freeze on the bathroom tiles. He keeps throwing up, again and again, until his throat feels like it's lined with sandpaper.

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(2 days later) 24th of June 2017

Once, he ate yoghurt. So Mollie buys him lots of it.

Anything that even vaguely resembles the taste or look of yoghurt, she drops into the basket. They spend too much time in the dairy aisle. Greek style, vanilla, fruit, chocolate and rice, she chooses a vast range.

He fixes a look of disgust onto his face at the growing collection.

"Come on," she says, dropping a vanilla one into the basket. "It's just food."

Just. There is no just.

She seems to regret that, because she puts her arm around him and gives him a tight squeeze. They go back to shopping without incident. Ethan watches her, following around her as though he's a child. She could've left him home, but that'd mean he'd be with Cal. And Cal isn't too pleased with him right now. Ethan isn't too far gone to know that.

"Milk," Mollie says, her eyes lifting from the messily scrawled shopping list. "You mind grabbing a couple?"

Wordlessly - words aren't something he likes to dish out often anymore - he does as she says. It's only a couple steps away from her, next to the milkshakes and the custard, but she still watches his every move. She always keeps a close eye on him. Like a mother. Or, more fittingly, a sister. He's not sure if it makes him feel like less of an adult or more cared about. There's two perspectives there.

They pass the cheese aisle. Ugh, he thinks. Cheese used to be my favourite.

They pay soon after. It's a Saturday, so the queue is long, but Mollie fills the silence. She talks as she loads the belt up, seemingly unaware that he's letting each word fade into white noise. He's grateful she tries. Truly. But speaking seems tiring so he doesn't bother.

At some point, she leaves him by the tills - he expects her to ask the cashier to keep an eye on him, in case he bolts, but she doesn't - and comes back with far too many onion based snacks.

"I've got a craving," she says, seeming like she expects him to understand that. Ethan nods, as if giving into his cravings is something that he does.