Page 61 of Running Feral

Just for today, I want to let someone else be in charge. If that makes me a victim or a shitty person or whatever, then fuck it. What else is new?

“Tobias?” Gunnar whispers in my ear, but I squeeze my eyes shut even tighter in response and turn my face into his chest, like a child.

He doesn’t push. He strokes my hair with one big, warm hand and continues to hold me tightly with the other. I can hear him talking to the cops in a low voice over my head, but I make the conscious effort not to hear what they’re saying.

It doesn’t last for long, though.

“Baby, can you wake up for a second, please?”

Ugh, how can I keep ignoring him if he’s going to be this sweet?

Disgusting.

I peel apart my gummy eyelids, even though it takes the strength of ten fucking men, and let the world come into focus around me.

Two men in uniform are standing in front of me, their faces a mixture of pity, discomfort, and boredom. Fantastic.

“Can you tell us what happened?” the one with darker hair and a slightly more sympathetic expression says. Although he’s still shuffling his weight from side to side like he’d rather be anywhere but here, while his partner drifts into full boredom and looks out the window, his fingers tucked into his body armor.

Jesus Christ, why is experiencing it legitimately almost easier than talking about it?

With as blank of a face and tone as I can manage—because I’ll be goddamned if I let these two chucklefucks see inside my head along with everyone else who gets to peek in there—I answer them.

“Eamon showed up at the hospital. He took me to a motel, padlocked the door from the inside, and kept me there for three days. He drugged me, fucked me, and told me if I tried to leave, he’d kill me.”

Gunnar stiffens beneath me but doesn’t say anything. None of this is news to him, but I guess it’s different when I’m talking about it, instead of it being some abstract concept.

Distantly, I wonder if he watched the security footage from the night I trashed the bar. I look around, memories of that night and everything I did suddenly superimposed on top of how it looks now. Then I picture myself bent over the bar while Eamon grins up at the fucking camera and how wonder disgusted Gunnar must have been to see it happen.

I’ve very carefully blocked all those thoughts out of my mind since the moment it was over, but as soon as the trickle begins, it turns into a flood.

“Fuck,” I say, as my mouth floods with bitter saliva and my body feels suddenly weightless.

I launch myself off Gunnar’s lap, pulling out of his grip and pushing past the two startled cops until I hit the floor on my hands and knees. Then my stomach heaves, over and over and over. All the water I’ve drunk comes up, but that’s not enough. I cough, drool trailing from my mouth and tears streaming from my eyes, even though I probably can’t afford to lose more liquid.

My stomach cramps, then heaves again, like a desperate, dying thing giving a last-ditch shove against some immovable obstacle. Something clenches inside me, and a thin liquid fills my throat before spilling onto the floor.

It’s bright yellow and looks more like snot than vomit. I’ve experienced a lot of disgusting things in my life, but this might be one of the worst. As soon as it’s out, I don’t feel better, but I do feel vacant. The cramping continues, but it eases off enough that I can try to catch my breath.

The world was coming in and out of focus for a minute there, so I’m too late when I start processing information again. One of the officers is already talking into his radio, requesting an ambulance and having it confirmed by dispatch. Gunnar is hovering over me with his hand on my back. When I manage to turn enough to look at him, though, he looks more freaked out than I expected.

“What?” I ask, my voice so fucking raspy I can barely push the word out.

“You don’t look good, Tobias. Maybe we should go to the hospital.”

His hand keeps rubbing my back as he says it, but it doesn’t do anything to tamp down the fear that jolts through me at the thought.

“No!” I jerk away from him, fighting back another wave of nausea.

I know, realistically, that the hospital is just as dangerous as everywhere else. Eamon could be anywhere. But they can’t take me back there when it feels like I just got out.

Gunnar sighs, and I know he’s putting two and two together about why I don’t want to go. Not to mention how little interest I have in being touched by anyone other than him, let alone stripped down and prodded in the name of medicine.

I’m still crouching on the floor, trying to avoid all the vomit, even though it’s mostly water, while also leaning as far away from the cops as I can without having to actually get up and move.

“Oh, you’re going to the hospital, kid,” Bored Officer says. “I’m not being blamed if you suddenly die. Plus, you need a what’s-it-called. A rape kit. If you want to press charges for the sexual assault you were talking about.” He looks at the other officer, and in a lower voice, but still not quiet enough for me not to hear, he asks, “They do rape kits for men, right?”

“Get out. Fuck off. Both of you.”

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