High School Treachery | ✓

41 | You Better Reconcile

4 1
You Better Reconcile

Regret.

I've felt it before—plenty of times—but never this strongly. My head pounds with every little move I make. So much as batting an eyelash causes the thumping to increase.

I am never drinking again!

I roll over in bed, reaching for the water bottle on my nightstand, but the movement causes a wave of nausea to overcome me. By the time my fingers glide across the bottle and I have it in my hold, a loud ringing travels across the entire room. My head feels like it's on fire.

"Ugh, what the hell." I groan while turning over, trying to locate the noise. I think I'll die if it doesn't stop. Okay, that's a bit dramatic, but at this moment, it seriously feels like that.

I reach blindly for my phone, bringing it to my barely open eyes, and quickly pressing a finger to the screen, unsure if I hit decline or answer.

"Uh, hey," a familiar voice comes seconds later.

Crap, I guess I answered. "Hey," I barely whisper back, needing all noise to stop.

"You're alive?" the person asks with a chuckle.

"Fucking barely," I reply, bringing my free hand over my eyes. "But yeah, I am. How about you?"

"I'm actually... good," he answers, sounding shocked himself. "I forced myself out of bed, popped some pills, and did a workout."

I groan. "Gross. You're clearly the athlete between the two of us."

"Didn't you technically used to be one?"

"Yeah... pretty sure it's obvious why I'm not anymore," I say while laughing, then immediately cringing and holding my head. "Fuck. What pills did you take?"

"Advil," he answers quietly.

"And how many did you take?"

Silence.

"Elijah, did you overdose yourself?"

"I might have taken more than suggested on the back of the bottle... but hey, I'm alive!"

I shake my head, regret filling me once more. "Please, please don't die on me."

"I won't, I promise," he answers, light laughter following the statement.

Please don't hate me... I won't, I promise.

I jump up from my bed, phone almost slipping out of hands. My nausea returns, but it's for a completely different reason—nothing to do with my hangover.

Bile rises to the back of my throat, and I swallow it down, only feeling more sick as the unwanted memories keep coming back.

I'm sorry, Elijah. I'm so, so sorry... Stop apologizing. I said it was no big deal.

"Lyn?"

I rush out of my room and head straight to the bathroom, barely slamming the door closed behind me before I'm collapsing in front of the toilet and flipping the lid back.

"Hey, are you okay? Do you need—"

The rest of his sentence is drowned out as I toss my phone to the side and throw up. Every stupid drink I consumed and every horrible thing I did seems to come out of me, and I can barely breathe as it keeps going. And even with all that I release, it still doesn't feel like enough. It still feels like there's so much bad in my system that I need to let out if I'm ever going to feel the littlest bit okay again.