Fine line (Larry Stylinson)

Chapter 13

I didn't remember going to sleep last night.

Infact, I didn't remember almost anything that happened last night. Except, of course, everything I wanted to forget.

As I rose from my sleep, a searing pounding in my head erupted and my temples began to cry in agony. My eyes felt heavy with salt and my mouth dry from sleep. On the corner of my coffee table lay an empty bottle of jack, the smallest trace of liquid trailing from the bottle.

Ah.

So that's what happened last night.

After Louis left, I don't think there was a moment where I stopped crying, but apparently I'd been able to pull myself together enough to finish the entire bottle.

I leaned over, putting my hands over my head and guarding my temples as if I could somehow stop the pounding myself.

Obviously unaccomplished, I smoothed my hair back with my hands and regretfully began to go over the events of the previous night.

In a way, I was still in denial, but in reality I knew what had happened.

No matter how much I wanted to forget, his words played over and over in my head. His actions, even, the look on his face, the alcohol on his breath. It only took one second to get sucked back in, and it felt like I was back there.

Before my mind started spinning, I huffed and carefully sat up, reaching for my phone.

I hoped I had nothing to do today, because it could be three in the afternoon for all I knew, and I sure as hell wasn't doing anything productive today.

If I was lucky enough, I wouldn't even have to step outside.

As if the universe was laughing at me, I picked up my phone and saw the absolute last name I expected or wanted to see.

Louis Tomlinson
Can we talk? - L

And as If on command, the bile in my throat began it's great escape toward my lips, and I lurched before stumbling over my own feet to the bathroom.

I reached almost violently, the contents of my stomach racing toward the bowl of the toilet. I felt hot tears escape the ducts of my eyes and fall over my face as I struggled to catch my breath between the constant contractions in my gut.

When the flood finally stopped, I spat into the bowl once more and rested my head on the seat,
choosing not to care how disgusting the act was.

My vision was blurry, my eyes stained once more with salt and despair. I could feel my heart beat in my head, banging at my temples, screaming in my ears. It was if my body was setting off warning sirens from every outlet, begging me to retreat - and I wanted to.

I wanted to step away, to close my eyes and fall back asleep, even if not not wake up within hours, days. I didn't care. I wanted to escape, to run as fast as I could from the trouble I knew was coming. I wanted, with everything in me, not to want the pain he was putting me through.

But what I needed?

Well, that was a different story.

I could still taste vomit on my lips, but I chose to ignore it, just as I chose to ignore the sirens pounding in my brain.

That was the worst thing about me - my failure to read the room, my oblivious nature when it came to doing what was best for myself. I had always been attracted to the darkness, to the things I couldn't have, ideas I couldn't fulfill. I couldn't explain it. It was rooted somewhere deep within me, this need, and it had sprouted ten years ago, in an xfactor bathroom.