More than just a friend || Roger Taylor

51- don't doubt yourself for a minute

12th March 1981

tw- abuse

Numb. It's a four letter word. It's an adjective- a word used to describe something. And that something was me. I was numb, numb was me. I was incapable of feeling any warmth, or cold. Just nothingness, helplessly fixating itself across me with intentions to bury itself in me with permanence.

I woke up that afternoon curled up tightly on the sofa, no memory of even falling in that position, let alone being comfortable enough in it for it to lead to me falling asleep. But it seemed it taken a slightly worrying routine in my sleeping, saving for the day instead of letting it have it's usual spot in the evening. It was a lot easier to let your mind wonder when the sun had hidden away- that was a fact I'd spent my entire life proving.

"Oh thank god. I was starting to think you weren't planning on waking up." Roger walked back in from the kitchen with a relief hitting his expression, knocking a tense breath from his lungs as he carried a plate in my direction. He placed it on the table in front of me, carefully positioning himself besides me as my arms lifted and stretched themselves out. "Made you a peanut butter sandwich. You don't have to eat if you don't want to."

It had been three night since the incident. And over the course of those brutal three nights I'd never loved Roger more. They were the most painful thing I'd ever been through, and he was there to try and carry as much as that hurt as he could. He was there to ease the pain, to try and slow my spiralling downfall as I tumbled in the freeness of my fathers arresting. Roger had been where I needed him to be- by my side. Holding me close to his.

"Thank you." I smiled, resting my head against his shoulder as he nodded slowly. "How long have I even been asleep for ?"

"Four hours. You needed it. Well you need more really but I know it's not easy." He placed a kiss that told my he really did understand against the top of my head, pushing back the hair that has the closest proximity to my newest wound. "You've irritated it though... the stitches don't look too pretty. Maybe try not sleeping against that side of your face."

"Fuck I forgot. Well I didn't forget it hurts like hell... but-"

"It's fine I know. How's your head feeling ?" I shrugged, leaning forward to take a small bite of the sandwich that would hopefully put an end to my complete loss of appetite and the constant taste of sick in my mouth.

"Sore... how's it looking ?" Roger took a glance at the gash the back of my head held, gently pushing my hair to the side to catch a glimpse of its severity that I couldn't. I knew my hair hadn't been washed, my face hadn't been painted, my body hadn't been cleaned, my eyes were burning red as they swell, my throat was sharp and scratched- but Roger didn't care. He couldn't be more phased.

"Again... I wouldn't say pretty." He slowly ruffled my hair back, watching my hand as it pushed away the plate containing an almost half eaten sand which. "I think you might be best having a shower soon- it needs cleaning. Only with water. And it might make you feel a tad better, or a tad tired. Either is a win in my eyes."

"Yeah probably." I shrugged lazily, sighing deeply as I leaned further back into Roger's arms. "How long is this gonna last ?"

"What ?" Roger eyebrows knitted, rightfully so, the tone in which he asked me stuffed with bundles of worry.

"I mean... this phase. This whole... I dunno what I'm feeling. I want it to go away. Part of me thinks I could of dealt with it easier if he'd just left- now I've got the police jumping down my throat. I don't know what I'm meant to feel."

"Adelynn." Roger pulled away from me slowly, the concern he liked to wear in his features fading into a tone of annoyance- though I don't think it was entirely aimed at me. "Lynn I had to call the police. I come home from a two week tour to find you curled up on the floor covered in blood. You think I was just gonna let him walk out ? He's fucking ruined you."