Chapter 6
6
ERIC
Waking up sore after a night out on the town is not that unusual for me. What is out of the ordinary is the fact that my face, sides, and arms are sore and it hurts to swallow.
He’s gagging for it…
I barely make it to the toilet before the contents of my stomach come rushing up my throat. Leaning back against the vanity cupboard, I try to remember what the fuck I was thinking last night.
I know better than this. It’s too close to the anniversary for me to be trying to do oral with a random guy. Hell, most of the time I take it off the table as soon as I introduce myself since I know it will likely trigger a fight or flight response. Most guys are good with handies or skipping to the main event, so it isn’t much of an issue usually .
So why the fuck did I swallow a cock last night? And why the fuck am I hurting so much?
Pushing myself off the floor I flush the toilet and move to the sink to splash some water in my mouth to rinse. Glancing at the mirror, I do a double take. My face looks like it became quite cozy with either pavement or a brick wall. And judging by the bruising on my neck, I don’t think I intentionally swallowed anything last night.
Lifting up my t-shirt, I can see a few bruises forming on my chest and torso that are suspiciously in the shape of boot prints.
I wasn’t fucked last night. I was fucked up.
Going back to the bed, I notice a scrap of paper under my phone on the table. Picking it up, I am surprised to see that someone helped me. Since I can’t remember much of last night, I’m more than a bit thankful for the kindness of a random stranger.
Izzy,
I am not sure if you even gave me your real name since the wallet in your pants says your name is Eric, but whatever. I’m sorry I was such a coward and hid when those guys started in on you. You are really nice and fearless and everything I wish I could be. Please don’t die even though you say you don’t care if you do. The world needs you. Your courage saved many others from those monsters and brought closure for others.
Be well and forget me please. Your light shines too brightly for those who need to hide in the shadows.
Sid
Well this answers absolutely nothing for me aside from realizing that I got my ass kicked by some homophobic dickwads either before, during, or after getting some from this Sid guy. I’m not sure how me getting beaten to a pulp saved anyone, but the headache that is building now that I’m fully awake makes me want to curl up in a dark room somewhere.
Digging into my backpack, I pull out my pill container for the day and choke down my morning meds dry. I’ll grab some coffee on the way home to take care of the hangover, but I know the headache I’m sporting is not from alcohol. If my head is pounding like this, it means I’m at least an hour behind schedule on taking my medication for my brain fuckups... I mean my bipolar disorder. I can miss a single dose, but if it gets to be longer than twenty four hours between doses, my head lets me know.
Last time I missed for two entire days, I was unable to move from under the covers without immobilizing pain. Spencer and Eli had to force feed me my medications for a few days until I evened out again. I swore I would never let myself get that bad again after seeing Shiloh’s face when I emerged from my room that morning. Guilt is a wonderful motivator, even if I resent the others for playing dirty.
Throwing all of my things back into my fuck-me bag, I hope I can somehow manage to sneak back into the house without anyone seeing me. It’s the downside of living in a house with multiple Daddies and the littles and pets who need reassurances. They keep me centered, but at the same time make me realize just how broken I am. I don’t want what they do. I don’t want a relationship. I don’t want to feel love. I don’t want to give someone my heart only for them to not be able to accept when my brain fucks everything up.
The world would be better off without me in it.
That thought circles through my head at least a million times every day. It would be so easy to miss the top stair or forget to stop at a stop sign or take a turn too late. But in all of those scenarios, my actions would have consequences for innocent people. My therapist doesn’t like it, but fact is, it’s total strangers that keep me from acting on those thoughts. I don’t stay alive for myself or my friends. They would be disappointed and sad but would ultimately understand.
I sure as fuck don’t care what my family thinks. Hell, I’m pretty sure my father would be grateful that he doesn’t have to bury all the news stories. He paid off the judge to rush my name change after the media leaked about me testifying last winter in the trial against Sabrina Carlisle. He didn’t want to have his name associated with “that event” again… not like he ever let it get out the first time.
No, I don’t worry about people I know. I stay alive for the hypothetical little boy who would find my body at the bottom of the stairwell. I stay alive for the faceless cop or firefighter who is one incident away from facing his own decision like this. I stay alive so that my trauma doesn’t become a burden to an unwilling and unrelated person. It is my guilt over the hypothetical consequences of my death that stops me from taking my life.