Dead Set. || PURPLEPHONE

BONUS CHAPTER

(( *spins the wheel of fortune* Ding, ding, ding! As you requested, here's a boooooonus chapterrrr!! )) 

Oliver followed Kayla into the kitchen. He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, which was stupid. Kayla was the one in trouble here, the one he was trying to protect, and yet here he was, getting all choked up over the possibility that he'd have to share his story once again. It was selfish.

No. He thought to himself. No more talking yourself down, Oliver. We agreed on this. It's perfectly fine to feel nervous about letting someone know your story. It doesn't make you selfish.

He let out a sigh, walking over to the kitchen bench and pulling himself up, sitting on it (even though his head barely missed hitting a cupboard). 

"You, uh... you want some tea, or something?" Kayla's hands were shaking slightly as she reached for the kettle. She was nervous, too.

Of course she's nervous, Oliver reminded himself. She's nervous for the same reason you are. 

"Tea's fine, thank you. No sugar, no milk," Oliver shot her the politest smile his racing heart could manage. Just say it. Just spit it out, and then the nerves will go away. But he couldn't get the words to force out of his throat. He hated it when he got like this. So many times he'd been like this with Scott, before he'd finally forced out his story. People didn't seem to understand the pain of needing to say things, but never being able to say them. It hurt. Physically, and mentally; it hurt. 

"Okay," Kayla walked over to the sink and turned on the tap, beginning to fill up the jug. The seconds passed like agony, and Oliver hated it. The pretend silence. The forced normality of the situation. The beating around the bush. It was like being actors in a play: being forced to talk politely, and make cups of tea, and not allowed to break from the script. 

"I-" Oliver started finally, and there it came. The noose around his throat, threatening to hang him if he dared try to speak another word. He could feel the invisible threads tightening, trying to choke him. His confidence withered, and he fell silent once again. Back to the script.

He hated it. 

Kayla pulled the electric kettle away from the tap, placing it on its little stand and flicking the switch with her thumb. Oliver knew she'd heard him start to speak, but she was ignoring it just like he was. She didn't want to talk first. 

Come on, Oliver. This isn't about you anymore. You know you can help Kayla, but only if you just, for once, let yourself talk. 

"I'm a sexual abuse survivor." 

Thump. His heart pounded hard in his chest as the words left his mouth, and the adrenaline rushed out of him all at once. He couldn't believe he'd spoken. It was as though someone else had said the words for him. It was no easier the second time than it was the first.

Kayla looked up at him, her blue eyes watching him cautiously, as though afraid he were fragile. She opened and shut her mouth once, twice, and then resorted to looking down at her feet. Oliver could see her blushing with embarrassment. He understood.

"It's okay," he said. "I wouldn't know how to reply to that, either. I'm sorry to dump it on you. I just... wanted to let you know... you're not alone." 

Kayla nodded slightly. "Thank you," she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. She was on the verge of tears. She looked up at him, "What happened?" 

"I..." Oliver swallowed slightly, closing his eyes. He shuddered as he felt it: Senor Santillan's breath beside his ear. He could hear him now, feel his hands on his body, forcing their way down his pants. He could hear the screaming. His own screams. High pitched. Hysterical. Desperate for answers. Wanting to know why he deserved this torture. Why?