Chapter 13
Emmett
The thought of exiting the moving vehicle occurred to me too many times to count.
If I just pulled the handle, it would release, and I could roll out onto the street. Unnoticed and quietly. Possibly aim for a trajectory somewhere near the back tire. Maybe catch the unsuspecting car trailing behind.
I’d have to undo the seatbelt.
But then Tristen would hum along to the radio. It’s not anything I know, I don’t listen to the radio much, but there’s something about the deep timbre of his vibrating vocal cords that kept my gaze locked on the passing landscape instead of the worn plastic.
It’s just the soundtrack to my procession.
And it’s not even good.
We begin to slow, and I sigh, a deep force to empty my entire chest and though it burns, I relish in it. Focus on it. Wrap my arms around it and hold on tightly.
It’s what I deserve after all.
Every bruise. Every broken bone and laceration. Every layer of darkness inside my head.
I deserve it all.
“Emmett?” It’s so quiet, I almost don’t hear it over the rushing in my ears. “We don’t have to go in.”
Sucking in a breath, I shake away the voices running through my mind and squeeze my eyes closed. They’re so tight, I see a rush of colors despite the nighttime darkness. It makes my head feel like it’s spinning, and my breath comes tight.
“Hey, just breathe, okay?”
“I’m okay. I’m okay,” I choke out automatically. “I deserve it. It’s okay.”
“Just in and out, that’s all. In and out.”
I don’t want to listen. I don’t want to fill my chest with the breath my body’s desperate for, begging for with each pant that rushes out of me.
I can’t.
I can’t.
“Emmett.”
My throat burns. My tongue dries. My chest aches.
This is my own doing.
I did this.
It’s my fault.
“Em—I’m sorry.” I barely hear it before the world tilts, and the center of my chest explodes in a pain that leaks a choked cry. Something hard hits my forehead and it hurts but not more than my ribs that feel like they’re caved in.
I’m shit.
I’mshitI’mshitI’mshit.
Pressure on the back of my neck has tears springing to my eyes.
Not again.
“No. No. No,” I chant, and it’s cracked. Clogged. Coated in tears that run down my cheeks as I claw at the air, fight against the hold.
“I know. I know, Em. I’m so sorry.”
The restraint keeping me bowed over lessens and I grab my knees, holding them tightly.
“You’re okay. I promise you’re okay.”
I’m not. I’m nowhere near okay, but there’s a swipe of something behind my ear. It’s rough and hot and though I want to cringe at it, I don’t. I want to hate it. To leer back from it. To fight it off.
I can’t.
“You’re okay,” Tristen whispers.
The touch behind my ear morphs into a band across my shoulders that makes me cry harder.
“No, please don’t.”
“I’m not gonna hurt you, bub. I’m not.”
There’s a tug.
At first, I stiffen. Fight against it. Pull away from it.
He tugs harder.
“You’re safe with me, I promise.”
I promise …
“I’m not gonna hurt you.”
Tears wet my knees.
“No one’s gonna hurt you, Emmett.”
He pulls away the strength I have left, leaving nothing but a pile of shaking pain-filled bones and too-weak muscles falling into him.
I become one with the cries that work their way past my clogged throat, with every tear track that lines my hot cheeks and drips down my chin onto Tristen’s pant leg.
“I-I’m sorry,” I sob onto his thigh.
He holds me tighter.
“Just let it out.”
I cry harder.
“You’re safe, Emmett. I got you.”
My mouth sticks wide open, no sounds escaping as I grip at whatever I can reach.
I cling to the promises in Tristen’s words. I know they’re fake. They won’t last. It’s just to bring me down and stop the tears.
Men don’t cry, Emmett.
I turn into Tristen.
Filthy little boys do.
I claw at his hoodie. Grab hold of anything that’ll fit in my hands.
“I got you.”
The pain escapes on a sound that I bury, muffle as best I can.
It takes everything in me to suck back my next breath and it’s all sage and leather. Rich and earthy.
Too much.
No, it’s not enough. To calm the raging voices screaming in my ears. The violent thoughts of dying on bathroom floors.
It’s not enough to stop the deep-rooted need to be someone else.
If I’d been someone else …
I could have been stronger.
I could have been better.
But I’m not.