Trigger Warning: Emetophobia
The tile was cold against my knees, my head over the moving toilet bowl. I gripped either side of the seat as tightly as I could, waiting for the vomit to come up.
Gagging once and then twice, it would be any minute now.
Cool fingers pulled my hair away from my face. I froze. My cheeks were hot with embarrassment.
"Get out," I said weakly. What was he doing? Why was he doing this? The only thing worse than him hearing me getting sick outside the door was him being in the bathroom.
"You get it out," he said nonchalantly, holding my hair in a ponytail, "You'll feel better."
I swallowed, sweat accumulating on my forehead. I knew I needed to be sick, but I hated it. The last time I'd vomited was when I had NUVID. Feeling the nausea now was like wondering whether or not I'd live all over again.
"I can't," I murmured, my nose was beginning to run. I stared down the toilet bowl. It smelled like lemons due to the little round freshener stuck on the side.
"Your body wants to," Wesley said, gathering a few more strands of hair from my eyes, "Breathe."
I released a tight breath, feeling the sickness rising once more. I forced a swallow, my heart pounding in my ears, "I'm scared," I whimpered. It was so embarrassing, "I-I don't want to die," my voice broke.
I was shocked that he was suddenly rubbing circles on my back, "You won't die. You're just drunk. Your body wants to get the alcohol out of your system."
I nodded feverishly. Why was he being so nice? Gentle, even. This was an entirely different person than before.
I was beginning to lose the choice in whether or not I became sick. After a few more moments of breathing in lemon and toilet water, I puked.
Wesley was still rubbing my back, "Yeah, that's good," he said, "You're okay."
By the time I'd finished, I could barely hold my head up. I leaned myself against the wall.
Wesley stood up, "Where does your aunt keep the washcloths?" he asked. My eyes were closed, my head slumped to the side. I could hear cabinets opening, "Ah," he said. The water was running.
A cold cloth was pressed to my face. It felt incredible. My mouth, on the other hand, tasted disgusting.
"Can you stand?" Wesley asked. My eyes were still closed. I shook my head. I just wanted to sleep. Literally. On the bathroom floor.
Suddenly, I was being lifted as though I weighed nothing. My head fell backward as the light in the bathroom faded into the darkness of the bedroom. I was put down on the bed, the duvet pulled over me. I rolled over, burying my face in the pillow.
"Don't go," I muttered, hearing Wesley retreating. I didn't want to admit it, but I was afraid I would die in my sleep. It might have been the drunkenness talking or the traumatic experience of almost dying and then losing a parent. Either way, I didn't want to be alone.
"I'm just going to the other room," he said, reaching over to me to grab a blanket and a pillow off the bed.
"No," I grabbed his arm weakly, "Please," I tightened my grip, "Stay."
He sighed, and then I heard him toss the pillow on the floor beside the bed, "Alright," he agreed, "I'm going to check on Ava, I'll be right back. Do you need anything?"
"Water would be nice," I mumbled into the pillow, fighting back a smile. This was nice. I didn't know 064 could be nice.
I fell asleep before he came back. In the morning, my head was pounding. Morning light peeked through the drawn curtained casting a ray across the empty floor. There was no trace of Wesley, not a pillow or blanket. If he did sleep in the same room as me, he'd erased the evidence.
I sat up slowly, the blood rushing to my brain. Every part of my body ached, some nausea remaining. I was never going to drink again.
An alarm clock on the opposite nightstand blinked: 7 am. Surely, I was the only one awake. That meant that Wesley left in the middle of the night, or maybe, he was never in the room at all. I didn't know all of the side effects of drinking but if alcohol functioned like a drug, maybe I hallucinated the entire interaction.
It was certainly easier to fathom than Wesley holding my hair back or saying kind and comforting things to me while I threw up.
I swallowed. Could I have dreamed it? Geez, my mouth tasted sour.
Then I saw it. I hadn't dreamed it. That interaction was real.
I fought back a cheesy grin as I reached for it–a glass of water on the night table.
Continuing the updating. Love this particular scene even if it's a little gross. For you OG fans, you'll get a lot more content in these updates. You know you LOVE it. Haha XOXO ~N.K