Mess To Be Made

51

***Trigger Warning: this chapter contains scenes of sexual assault***

I've tasted vomit a lot of times. Too many. And throwing up drunk was never fun.

But throwing up because your body hated itself more than your mind did, because your insides were clawing their way out like you contracted a virus your body was naturally programmed to try and expel—only to realize the virus is you.

Throwing up to survive, yet somehow still killing yourself in the process.

"Allie."

Stop. I needed him to stop saying my name. Because every time he said it, all I heard was Cam's voice—a silky tone that sounded angelic, yet made me feel like I was being dragged over sharp, hot coals.

I needed it all to stop. But I couldn't speak. My throat was raw and every time I opened my mouth, the only thing that came out was more vomit.

I wasn't sure how long it had been since I started throwing up. I wasn't even sure where I was. But as the vomiting slowed, the exhaustion set in. I allowed my body to go limp, dipping forward until the top of my forehand landed on something rough and cold. Pavement, I think.

All I knew was that every time I tried to crawl out of this dark hole I found myself in, every time I tried to open my eyes to attempt the basic function of seeing, I was on the verge of throwing up again. Because what if I opened my eyes and he was right there.

He had just been right there. So close to me. So close he could've reached out and touched me. He didn't have to, though. His eyes alone were enough to violate every inch of me with a single glance.

Fingers, so light I wasn't entirely confident they were even real, fluttered over my spine. I flinched and a gag rippled through me, but nothing came out. Once my muscles relaxed underneath the hovering fingertips, the entire palm laid flat against my back. A thumb gently swiped at the fabric of my shirt.

I didn't like it at first. But it was better than hearing my name over and over again. Because with my eyes shut, a voice saying Allie could be anyone—Tyler, Cam, Spencer, Landon...

But the hand rubbing my back was undoubtedly Tyler. My mind couldn't trick me on that one. So I focused on the comforting circles his hand patterned on my back until my head no longer felt so heavy, and I lifted it off the pavement and leaned back into the touch of his hand.

His arms immediately encircled me and he pulled me into the safety of his broad chest. Eyes still closed, I buried my nose in his shirt, inhaling his scent like a drug that could take away all the pain. It wasn't until I noticed his shirt was damp that I realized I was crying.

"Hey," he whispered into my hair as he continued to hold me, tightening his grip every so often like he was afraid I might slip away again. "It's okay. Just breathe."

I took a shaky breath in, not having realized I hadn't been breathing. The chill in the evening air stung my swollen throat and sore chest.

"I'm right here."

My eyelashes were practically sewn together from the pressure of retching mixed with tears, but I managed to pull them apart to take in my surroundings. I instantly recognized the street as Landon's. We were sitting on the edge of the sidewalk—Tyler next to me, although I was almost entirely in his lap at this point.

"Tyler," I murmured, though my voice was so hoarse I could barely understand myself. I didn't want to look at him—not yet.

He exhaled—almost a sigh—like hearing me speak lifted a heavy weight off his shoulders. I felt his cheek resting against my head, his breath warm on my scalp when he softly replied, "Are you ready to go home?"