Page 60 of Something So Strong

Every time I try, the oxygen is forced back out of me.

I’m going to explode.

At the toilet, I grip the bowl and wretch—all of my muscles trying to force the panic out through my mouth.

But nothing comes.

Again it happens. My body strains so hard that my eyes water. But still… nothing.

There’s nothing in my stomach to bring up. Just like there’s nothing in my life to offer Jesse.

He deserves more. More than this. More than taking care of some gutter trash.

I shouldn’t be so shocked at what he heard.

I had the dream. I woke up with the bruises.

But my room? The bed?

Nothing explains that.

It was too easy to convince myself I’d punched my ribs and legs while lying down because that way I didn’t have to think about it anymore. If I’d stayed in bed, then maybe I’d stayed quiet too…

My arms wrap around my middle, and I fall to the bathroom floor.

The cold of the tiles only amplifies how hot the rest of me is.

How useless I am.

How exposed.

Anyone could barge in and do whatever they like… Again… And what could I do? Nothing. Just like back then. Just like when Josh’s fist sent me to the ground.

Just like when they broke me.

When they killed me.

I should have died.

I should have died so many times, but someone, somewhere, is having a great big laugh at my expense. Like God did with Job, some sick fucker is seeing how much shit I can take before I chose to end it myself.

The battery light flashes in the corner of my laptop screen, and I slap it shut. It’s just gone half-six in the evening anyway, and time I moved from the ground behind my door.

Stretching my arms and back as I stand, I check Kai’s door one last time, even though I know he hasn’t left. No one came, and no one went. No visitors, no surprise guests. Just a blond British man listening out for any sound. Any sign of distress. Any excuse for me to help him.

Dressed in a hoodie and pair of sweatpants from one of the piles on my bedroom floor, I plug my laptop into charge and look around my room like the thing I’m searching for will jump out at me.

The thought came to me about an hour ago whilst watching Stranger Things on mute with the subtitles. But they live in the eighties. This is twenty-twenty-three.

But you know what else is from the eighties? This room’s shitty decor.

The old telephone by the door. The brown accent tiles in the bathroom. The desk and chair. Because the staff dorms used to be the original hotel.

Leaning over my suitcase, I try to open the desk’s drawer, but it’s stuck. Leaping to the other side, I shake the handle and try opening it again. Crunches—like paint cracking—make me wonder how long it’s been since this thing was opened. Growing restless, I tug the drawer the remainder of the way, only for the wood to squeak worse than cutlery dragged along a ceramic plate.

“Fucker.” I curse the drawer as my ears ring. But at least my search has proven fruitful. Because there—albeit discolored—is a pad of paper and a pencil. Both with the Vistas logo and no doubt older than I am.

I tear the paper from the pad and fold it in half. It’s a dumb note, but I want him to have it. I need him to know he’s not alone.

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