Warm Bodies: The Answer

The Lesson

R was in bad shape.

For the fifth time that morning, he hugged the porcelain bowl of the toilet and vomited his guts out.

Then, weak, pale and shaking, he sagged back against the bathroom wall, and tried to think around the sledgehammer pounding against the wall of his skull with every heartbeat.

It was impossible. His head hurt too much to think. Couldn't open his eyes either, every time he did it was like the world was interrogating him with a spotlight the size of the sun, and his head split wide with it.

It'd be a blessing actually, his head splitting open, ending this misery.

At least he'd stopped vomiting.

No.. I haven't.. ohgod

Rowan pushed off the wall at the sudden swell of nausea and held on for dear life as his stomach offered up the very last particle of food it held.

There was a knock on the bathroom door as he sagged over the bowl, well and truly done.

"You alive in there?"

It was Joshua's voice, and he could tell it was framed by a smirk.

The sound of the voice buffeted harshly against his brain, and he groaned, desperately wanting the world to fuck off and leave him to die in peace.

Everything smelled of alcohol. His breath, his clothes. What he'd just graced the toilet with.

And why did his mouth taste like dirty socks? It was the first thing he'd noticed when he woke a little while ago. He'd barely lifted his head from the couch he'd found himself on before the world had crushed in, and he'd half staggered, half crawled to the bathroom before spending the next however many minutes in hell.

Caleb had obviously spent the night eating dirty socks, drilling holes into his brain, and showering in vodka.

The thought of vodka made him want to puke again.

"Seriously, say something kid," Joshua said, with the tiniest measure of sympathy in his voice, though that could have been Rowan's imagination.

"No," Rowan mumbled, and groaned as the sound reverberated through his head.

Speaking was not allowed. No more speaking.

"That's it," Joshua sighed. "I'm coming in."

Oh god, go away.

But Joshua didn't. Rowan couldn't even lift his head to look at him as the man pushed into the room and stood over him.

"Kid," the man said.

Rowan ignored him.

Something cold was pressed against his temple, and Rowan jerked away instinctively, pressing up against the wall as he raised his hand to ward Joshua off.

The cold something was pressed into his hand, and slowly, as his eyes creaked open, he realized that Joshua was giving him a drink.

"Uh," he grunted, and tried to see what the drink was. The glass was deliciously cool against his hand and beaded with condensation. It was red. That's all he got before he had to shut his eyes again.

Joshua pushed it at him again. "Drink it, it'll help."

Instead Rowan took it and pressed it up against his forehead, his temple, his cheek. So wonderfully cold. It felt good, and helped to focus his mind a little.

What the hell happened last night? What the fuck did Caleb do to him?

Where was the nearest gun to shoot himself with?