As soon as the sound of Oliver's footsteps faded, I lurched to my feet and pulled the closet door open. Tate was sitting, curled up into the corner, and his head was shaking as he murmured frantically to himself.
"We're gonna be okay, he can't hurt us. It's okay, it's okay." And he rocked gently back and forth, his pale arms wrapped around his legs. I crouched down, looking into his dull, ice-blue eyes. He wasn't in this moment with me. He was somewhere else entirely.
He was years in the past. Reliving a memory that got his brother sent to a mental hospital and traumatized Tate for the rest of his life.
"Shhhh! Shhh! Shhhh!" Tate whispered desperately, his finger shooting to his lips to silence someone whom was not there. His eyebrows furrowed with fear, his rocking becoming faster. "He'll hear us, he'll hear us."
I hated seeing him this way. I felt a deep aching in my heart as I struggled to find a way to help him. I hated myself for bringing this memory back for him. I should have known not to put him in a closet.
I reached out for him. To touch his arm softly. "Tate." I said gently.
"No!" He stuffed himself deeper in his corner, and I knew he wasn't talking to me. "Don't hurt her, please!"
He shook his head faster and I began to shake as well as I grasped at his arms with both hands and tried to pull him out of the closet.
It was a painstaking process. I was half his size and he was struggling like mad.
"It's okay, It's okay, Tate." I found myself reassuring him over and over again and it was then that I realized my cheeks were wet with tears.
"It's Poppy. I'm here with you. It's okay. He can't hurt you." I choked out as I tugged and tugged at his body until we were nearly out of the closet door.
His pale face was still bathed in shadow as he squeezed his eyes shut and then open again numerous time before the shaking finally slowed.
I was struggling to keep from having a panic attack of my own.
I was still shaken with my eyes squeezed tight when I felt hands on my face, smoothing my hair back and wiping at my tears.
"Hey, Poppy. It's okay."
And then I began to laugh.
YOU ARE READING
Tate
Teen Fiction"Tate Moore is fucking psychotic." He stared at me blankly, like he hadn't just insulted himself. He snapped his gum, as my mouth hung open. Then something completely unexpected happened. He plucked the gum from his mouth and stuck it on my nos...
