TAINTED (book II)

XXXVII

Tristan hunched over the toilet seat for the fifth time that day and it wasn't even noon yet. The sterile, bitter smell of the hospital didn't help with his nausea either. He grunted as he lowered himself on the floor, back pressed against the cold partition of the bathroom stall. The small confinement forcing him to bend his legs at the knees.

The back of his head repeatedly thumped against the thin wall, multiplying the dancing spots in his vision. He was vaguely aware of the throbbing sensation in the back of his scalp. Briefly wondering if he could give himself a concussion this way. That would've been welcome right now. Add in a little memory loss and he'd be great. Anything to erase the past five hours from his conscious.

Tristan hung his head, digging his pointer finger and thumb in the inner corners of his eyes and the spots exploded like firework. He sniffed hard; once, twice, five times until he realized how useless it was to press down his tear ducts when the tears managed to escape either way.

He threw his head back, purposefully banging it against the wall again. Harder this time. Again and again and again and again, hoping to knock away the thoughts he wished he never knew in the first place. Tristan welcomed the pulsating pain, it was much more bearable than his heart being ripped apart.

Time was slipping through his fingers. Minutes without seconds. Hours without minutes. How long had he been sitting there? He didn't know. He didn't know anything.

Why was this happening? Why had it been his family again? Hadn't they gone through enough? Why them? Why his innocent little – Tristan broke the thought, the same way his agony broke his heart in another million pieces.

Tristan simply didn't know.

His limbs had gone numb when he eventually decided to drag himself up. Eyes pinched shut as he counted to fifteen to compose himself, to stop his hands from trembling, to get his breathing back in check, to stall – who knows. By now it was almost routine as he closed the toilet lid, blindly pressing the flush lever, unlocking the door, letting it slam on his way out. He gave himself another hour before he'd be back again, repeating the same drill.

There were five bathroom sinks installed, Tristan always went for the middle one. He gazed at his own face in the mirror that horizontally stretched over the length of the sinks. It was like he couldn't even avoid his reflection, as if he couldn't escape it, he had to face it.

The pair of eyes that looked right back at him didn't seem familiar to him. They were red-rimmed, glassy with unshed tears; they belonged to a man whose soul was shredded.

Cupping his hands under the faucet, he splashed the ice-cold water in his face. Repeated it a few times until it numbed his face. He rinsed his mouth a few times as well, spatting out the vile taste that lingered in his mouth. Tristan ran his wet fingers through his hair, dampening the strands while simultaneously combing it back. He held both hands locked behind his neck for a few seconds; holding his hair in place before releasing it.

He reached for the paper towel dispenser, grabbed enough to dry himself before tossing it in the bin. Popping three mints in his mouth, he checked himself one last time in the mirror, hoping to god he'd never have to stare in those eyes ever again.

Tristan didn't knock as he entered the hospital room. He held the knob until the door quietly clicked shut. The sight in front of him was exactly the same as he had left it. It was a small room, holding two hospital beds, though only one was occupied. How they all fit into the tight space, he'd never know.

Ashton took up the right side of the mattress, the bed had been slightly elevated, making him sit halfway upright. He was fast asleep, his neck bent awkwardly as his chin rested on his shoulder. His left arm was stretched out, being used as a pillow by Noah.