Drop Dead | Sam Fender

Chapter Seventy Seven

TRIGGER WARNING: MENTION OF DEATH AND SUICIDE

Aurora

My worries for Sam grew exponentially as the days passed. He was withdrawn, non-talkative and unsociable and I was running out of ways to help him. He didn't want to talk about it and he turned down any group plans. He didn't leave his room unless he was going to work or to eat and use the bathroom. I knew Shirley was losing her mind with worry but I didn't know how to comfort her as I felt the exact same way. I couldn't recall the last time we had a proper conversation with each other and if I hadn't been showing up at his, I probably wouldn't have had any contact with him at all considering he didn't answer his phone anymore.

Tyler's funeral was the hardest. I could tell he hadn't wanted to go, haunted by his guilty conscience but I pushed him softly into it, knowing he would regret it in years to come. He was so withdrawn I practically had to dress him. It scared me. I had never seen Sam look so dead inside as he had watched his friend's coffin being lowered into the ground, clutching onto my hand with a death grip, as though he thought I would disappear if he let go.

I passed my driving test last week and as my finger hovered over the call button of Sam's contact, my mind reminded me of the reclusive state he was in and instantly, my mood reverted back to one of defeat. I couldn't tell the one person I wanted to tell and it was hurting my heart. I couldn't bring myself to be happy, even as my friends and family congratulated me, plastering on a fake smile.

"I'm really worried about him, Harls," I whispered into the phone. Shirley was supposed to be going out that night and hadn't wanted to leave Sam on his own. I had practically forced her to go out, assuring her that I would stay with him. I had left him in his room under the guise of making us some tea but had wanted to phone Harlow for some advice.

"He's still the same?" she asked.

"He's not said a word since I got here," I told her worriedly. "He doesn't answer my calls but then when I come over, he won't let go of me... I... I just dunna what to do. Do I put my foot down or give him more time?"

"It's been a month, Rora," she pointed out. My eyes drew shut as I thought back to just before the news was delivered to us just after the start of the year. It had seemed a lifetime ago now but in reality, it had been four painful weeks. "I think he needs some tough love."

"I'm terrified he's gan snap if I do," I admitted woefully. My entire body was tense and my mind was exhausted. I felt as though I was being hung off the edge of a cliff by a rope that was on the verge of snapping. My heart plummeted as I heard a loud crash echo from Sam's room, my head snapping towards the source of the noise. "Shit, Harls, I've got to go."

I didn't waste a second as I ended the phone call and sprinted to Sam's room, my muscles relaxing when I realised that he was okay. Physically at least. He was on his knees on the floor of his room, his head tucked into his chest and his hands tugging at his thick locks of hair.

"Sam?" I called him cautiously as I took note of the shards of glass that covered the wooden floor. "Babe, what happened?" I could hear him muttering something under his breath but couldn't work out the words clearly. Mindful of the glass fragments that littered the floor, I carefully made my way over to him and sunk to my knees so I was at his level. "Sam, talk to me."

I pulled his hands from his hair hesitantly, trying to gauge his reaction as I did so and relaxing slightly when he didn't protest. I placed a hand on his cheek and gently lifted his head so I could see his face, my heart breaking when I noticed his red-rimmed eyes, only intensified by the dark circles beneath them. I knew he hadn't been sleeping, haunted by his friend's death.

"You're bleeding," he spoke hoarsely as he stared at my hand, turning it around gently so my palm was facing upwards. Surely enough, a steady stream of bright red flowed from a cut at the bottom of my palm.

"Oh, yeah," I muttered in shock. Partly because I hadn't felt any glass piercing my skin but mostly because this was the most Sam had said to me in weeks.

"Shit," he cursed under his breath, his face contorting in anger. "You're such a fuck-up. Idiot. This is all your fault."

My stomach dropped as I just about made out his words of abuse aimed at himself. "Hey, none of that now," I told him softly but he continued to whisper furiously to himself. "Sam."

The forcefulness of my tone ripped him from his turmoil, his eyes rising to meet mine, filled with anger and sorrow, his shoulders dropping in defeat but still, his hand didn't let go of my injured one. "I'm sorry," he strained out, his voice breaking as he spoke.

"Don't yer dare be sorry," I frowned, running my thumb along his cheekbone. "Gan sit on your bed, let me clean this up." He shook his head no. "Sam."

"No, this is my mess. I'll clean it up," he muttered. "Sort your hand oot."

I paused as I contemplated his words, my lips pulled into a tight line. "Okay," I whispered, pressing a soft kiss against his forehead as I pushed myself up.

"Be careful!" he objected with concern as I cautiously dodged the pieces of glass. A small smile fought its way onto my face as I noted the progress he had made. It may have been minor but it was something.

The two of us were silent as we danced around each other in the kitchen, me cleaning the cut on my hand whilst Sam looked for the dustpan and brush to clear the floor of his room. I covered the small wound with a plaster and took a deep breath as I made my way back to his room, readying myself for what was to come.

I pushed the door open as Sam emptied the dustpan filled with glass into his bin and laid it down on his desk. He would put it back later.

"Sam," I called gently, startling him. "Sorry."

"I'm just... on edge," he mumbled with a forceful smile, shoving his hands into his pocket.

"Come here," I told him quietly, opening my arms for him. He didn't waste a second diving into them, his arms curling around my torso and his face hiding in the crook of my neck, which quickly became wet with tears. "It's alreet. Everything's gan be alreet."

"It hurts," he cried.

"I know," I sighed as tears began stinging my eyes. I had never seen Sam cry since I met him more than four years ago. Not a single time. I didn't know how to react. I could deal with his anger, his irritation, his disappointment. I never had to deal with tears. "But it's gan be alreet. I promise. Things are gan get better."

We stood there in his room for around twenty minutes before I pulled him to his bed, allowing him to curl up in my arms, his head resting over my heart. I continued to console him, whispering comforting words to him and playing with his hair.

"I'm so proud of yer, ya know," I smiled softly.

"Why?" he muttered disbelievingly as his fingers played with the hem of my jumper.

"For letting me in," I told him. "I know it's not easy for yer."

"It's pathetic," he sighed. "Men aren't supposed to cry."

"Sam, one of your friends took his life. You're allowed to be upset," I murmured woefully. "It's not healthy to keep it all in and if that means you cry, then so be it."

"Mmm," he mumbled half-heartedly.

Silence engulfed the two of us but it was different to the last couple of weeks. It was welcomed. I could tell Sam was exhausted, his sleep plagued with night terrors, proven by the number of times he would wake up in the middle of the night, sweaty and hyperventilating. He let out a yawn that I could tell he had been holding in, not wanting to show any more weakness to me that night.

"Go to sleep, babe," I whispered to him. "I'll be reet here."