Saving Laurel

49. Her Hero

Wes Thompson

I take a seat next to Laurel, giving her a hesitant smile because I can only imagine how scared she was seeing me like that. It's pretty evident she's been avoiding me all day, all of us actually but I think it's mostly me. When she didn't show up to lunch I decided to head to music, hoping to distract myself a little because my tics are worse than usual. Not as bad as the past few days but still not good. And as I neared the doors, there she was, sitting silently in her chair in the middle of the classroom, alone.

Inhaling sharply, I cycle through my normal set of tics. She doesn't move through any of it.

"I'm sorry." I apologize.

Her bright blue eyes meet mine, surprise filling them as she says "no I'm sorry. I never should have come over and just let myself in like that."

Shaking my head, it doesn't matter. My friends let themselves in all the time.

"Are you okay?" She whispers the question to me.

I've been anxious about seeing her all day but I've managed to hold myself together for the most part. My desire to tic is overwhelming, growing harder and harder to ignore until I fidget beside her. Suppressing them has been near impossible since I left my dad's.

"Yeah."

"Why do you hit yourself like that?" Her eyes gloss over with tears.

I can't surpress it any longer, smacking myself hard in my chest. Heat rises up my neck as I shout "fucking slut!" into the air.

"I'm sorry." I blurt immediately after only to whistle.

My mom thinks I'm too used to my medication, that and the two trips to my dad's plus Ryan, have me stressed. She's probably not wrong, if anything she's just missing a couple extra stressors. And all these things are contributing to my increase in tics.

Laurel watches me as my shoulder twitches and my neck jerks and I inhale sharply before touching my nose.

I flash her a smile trying to calm the unease that's in her eyes even though I doubt it helps. I don't blame her, I'm a lot to handle.

"Can we, fuck! Not talk about, (smack myself in the chest so hard I grunt) my tics?" I ask.

She nods her head but lowers her gaze, staring at her lap. I smack myself in the chest again, cuss then cycle through the normal ones.

But as I take a deep breath, pushing thoughts of my tics to the back of my mind, I take Laurel in. Her beautiful hair that she always wears down, a slight wave to it, her milky white skin. Slender fingers, I told her more than once I'd teach her how to play the piano. She'd probably be good at it, she's got piano hands. My mind is so focused on her, studying her, that I have a little reprieve from all the chaos that I am as I let myself soak her in.

She's wearing a long sleeve shirt, like she seems to do everyday. Or some version of it. But as I follow the sleeve of her shirt up her arm, my eyes stop, lingering on a stain thats on the underside of her upper arm. I can just barely see the light blue fabric stained with a dark brown color and it takes a moment for my mind to peace it together.

"Are you bleeding?" I ask, pointing toward her arm.

"What?" Her blue eyes meet mine before they follow the invisible line I've made to her arm. Her other hand flies up, blocking the stain from my sight. "Oh that's nothing."