𝐖𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐒𝐀𝐈𝐃 [t.s, t.k]

TWENTY FOUR | TAYLOR

TWENTY FOUR | TAYLOR
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I'm sprawled out across Travis's bed, panting as the tears kept falling. I'm hyperventilating into a pillow—Travis's pillow, trying to calm my nerves. It's been two hours since shit between us hit the fan, but I'm still not over myself. Every time I start to calm down, I think of something else that sends me into a frenzy of panic.

I hit Travis. No, I fucking slapped him. I slapped him, he took a step back, then he looked at me. He's never looked at me that way before—like he was...ashamed of me? Disappointed? Just for a solid few seconds, his eyes fell of an emotion I could not fanthom. Then, he walked up to me, hugged me, kissed me, and then left me be. Travis never lets me alone when I'm like this. Why did he leave me alone? Where he disappeared to after that, I don't know. I never heard the front door slam angrily, nor did I recognize the rumbling from the garage door opening.

Perhaps, I have an apology to make—that is, if I still feel like it when I find him. If I find him. I'm dizzy, but I find myself in the bathroom. I run a rag over cold water, then dragging it over my face. The chill soothes me as I'm so hot I can't stand existing right now. Ridding the tears without burning my skin with the sleeve of my sweatshirt was a whole other level of comforting. I take a deep breath before descending down the stairs.

The hallway is pitch black—so pitch black it almost blinds me. I'm practically sliding down the stairs, given I can't see shit. Usually, there's some sort of indication that there's life in this home, but, I actually think he might have left. I can't see or hear anything, almost as if I'm walking in a black pit of some timeless, boring dream. I make it to the bottom, skimming for any signs of existence in here, but I only see darkness.

I patter in the direction I think is the kitchen, tripping in the process. When I confirm my presence by clamping onto the edge of a bar stool, I flicker on the light. I squint, groaning. Light hurts. I scan the objects in the kitchen, though the area was cle—I peer, noticing an empty bottle of vodka sitting on the stove. "Likewise," I mutter to myself. I needed something to drink. My throat was dry. I shuffle to the refrigerator, as I'm pulling the door open, I discern a faint movement of a body locating from the couch. Ah-ha.

Quickly, I grab my water, then I hustle to Travis. He's lying down, and I can hardly see him given the dim light and steep cushions. He's quiet. "Travis," I whisper. He doesn't move. "Travis," I raise my voice. I halt in my tracks for a moment, studying him. I'm only standing about five feet from him, but I am acquainted with a tall glass object peeking over his head. Then, I hear a sniffle. Suddenly, I'm not stupid anymore.

I hurry to him, and the state he's in makes my heart drop. He was somehow curled into a very tight ball of himself, his knees drawn up to his chest, in a corner of the couch. He's trembling, whimpering. He's cradling a duplicate of the glass jar in his right arm for dear life, like it's his most prized possession. His fingers grip it, picking at up off the sofa and into his mouth—"Hey," I frantically urge. I kneel down beside him, reaching over and snatching the bottle from him. I place it on the coffee table behind me, though I'm tempted to smash it right here, right now. I stroke his arm softly. "Stop this," I demand. "You need to fuckin' stop. You're going to end up killing yourself if you keep doing this."

His neck shifts, returning his gaze on me, slightly picking his head off of the pillow he was sort of propped on. I part my lips to command something else of him, but I'm cut off by the hiccup of snivels erupting from his throat. His head falls back, and he can't catch his breath. I don't know if he's panicking, of if he's just overwhelmed bg the amount of sobbing he's dealt with. "Hey now," I coo, pushing myself to the edge of the couch. "Sh, you're okay. I'm right here."