HERO

24 / Decision Made

When there were no more excuses or thoughts to hide behind, one option remained.

Action.

Thomas knew this. If he found another reason to not drink one of the vials, he would be unable to fool both her and himself. Unable to choose a particular one over the others, he reached out and picked up the closest. They all, supposedly did the same thing anyway. Whatever the side effects or taste were, it was the end product that mattered. A new, improved Thomas. Outcast no more.

"Are you sure you want to do this?" Bren asked.

Of course he was sure. The rest of his life depended on it and the fact that he could feel himself shaking didn't change that. He nodded.

"Yes. I have to."

"You'll never be you anymore."

"I know. Like I said, that's the point."

"And blue is the one you're going with?"

Thomas looked at it. He liked the way the fluid, apparently just water, more or less, moved. The black dots were hypnotic. Blue was like vomiting for an hour, or however long it took to be absorbed, without actually puking. It didn't sound pleasant, but none of them did. No pain, no gain.

"It is."

The phrase's tone went up slightly at the end, as if he was asking a question. Maybe he was. He would appreciate help deciding on the right one to take. There wasn't a right one, however. There was just one. Any one.

Or...

Thomas put the bottle down, then proceeded to unscrew all four caps. He arranged the vials into a two by two square, one that, given their small sizes, could be picked up in one go.

Why count on just one? They might all work or only one could. Bren wasn't being forthcoming, so he had only guesswork to go on. Oscar hadn't given any real warnings other than, if Thomas was caught in possession of the vials, he was to say that he'd found them. He had no idea what they did, he was simply fascinated by the way the liquids moved in their containers. He was taking them home to show his father.

"What are you doing?"

"Deciding," Thomas said. He wasn't. His decision was already made.

He took a deep breath, held it, then let it seep out through his clenched teeth.

Here we go.

He raised his hand as if to pick one up, putting the other out to the edge of the coffee table for balance. He didn't want Bren to realise what he was going to do and try to stop him. Perhaps it had been a good job he'd put this off until that moment. It had given him, the darkest part of him that needed to ruminate while the outer, brighter parts made their excuses, time.

He leaned forward quickly, grabbed all four bottles and downed their contents in two large, swift gulps.

Bren's eyes went wide. Her arm went up in a too late attempt to stop him.

"No!" she shouted.

The bottles flew across the room, knocked from Thomas's hand. The shattered pieces of them, broken before contact with the wall, dropped to the floor like a hundred dried tears.

Thomas was thrown to the side, over the arm of the sofa and onto the floor. He hit his head on the floorboards but barely noticed. His stomach and throat and, well, all of him, was simultaneously on fire and freezing and desperately needing to throw up. His mouth was parched and he could somehow feel every one of his teeth, as if they were intruders in his gums and he needed to evict them. His eyes felt too big for their sockets. The impact of every shard of glass onto the floor was a drum beat trampling on the inside of his head.