Alive

Chapter 4

Elle

(Saturday, May 4)

I'm going to die.

This is it. The reason I never babysit or take care of sick people. Call me what you will, I can't do it. But here it is, without warning, and I don't know what to do. It's everywhere. Vomit on my shirt, dripping onto my socks, and in a puddle next to Oliver. I can't look. I need to move, but I can't do that either. I'm just standing, frozen as I wait for death. But only tears come, one after the other. What do I do? Is this from a virus? Will I get sick too? The smell of alcohol is the only thing that suggests otherwise, and I cling to that faint hope. Maybe he was just dumb and drank too much.

Now he's passed out on my doorstep. I think. Like I said, I can't really look. Then I might pass out too. But he clearly needs help. Why me? Why me? Should I call an ambulance? I wish I had one of his friend's numbers. But I don't, and the police probably have me blacklisted after that time I called them when a squirrel got in my house. I don't like animals, either.

This is up to me. I can't let Oliver die right now. That would ruin everything. I'm going to have to brave this. Somehow, I'm going to have to face the vomit.

Come on, Elle. Come on.

I squeeze my eyes shut and peel off my shirt, shrieking as I throw it out the door. Step one. I've got this. There's still residue on my skin, but it's not nearly as bad. My socks are next to go. I can barely touch them as I fling them away, following up with my pants. It's a bit better, although now I'm basically naked on my doorstep in front of Oliver Stanton. Great. At least he's unconscious. I hope.

Okay, now what? I'm sure most people would throw everything aside and get him to a toilet. Make him some food, get him some water. And I definitely will, but first things first. I tiptoe across the carpet, grabbing my cleaning solution, a fresh rag, and a couple wipes.

It doesn't matter I'm eye level with Oliver and he could wake up at any time. The vomit has to be the first thing to go. My hand can barely move, it's shaking so hard as I wipe up the puddle. It's orange and red and reeks like something I hoped I'd never have to smell. And it's seeping through the rag, about to touch my fingers. It doesn't matter whether or not I'm wearing gloves. I throw it out the door. I'll have to get more.

Fourteen rags later, and I'm still at it. The stain is gone, and I've scrubbed the area three times since then. But I finish it off with a fourth, using the last clean towel to wipe off my skin. I'll buy more rags tomorrow. There's no way I'm reusing those.

There. No more throw-up. At least on the ground. I can still smell it on me, and I wish a shower was the next step, but Oliver doesn't seem to be doing well. I don't think I can make him wait that long.

"Hey," I say, bending down to check on him. His eyelids flutter open for a second.

"I'm gonna hurl," he says. My heart clenches. No. Not again. I start to push him outside, but then I realize that's probably not a kind thing to do. So I grab two fistfuls of his shirt and start tugging him through the door. He smells almost as bad as his vomit. There are stains all over his t-shirt, and probably on his black sweatpants too. I'll rent a carpet cleaner tomorrow. Maybe I should just get a new carpet altogether.

"Hang on," I say, huffing as I drag him across the room. "I'll get you to the toilet."

He doesn't respond, but I don't like the way his head is moving, nodding back and forth in my momentum. I try to be careful, but I have to get him there fast. Otherwise—crap. He's making a noise. That kind of noise that can only mean one thing. No. No.