Page 27 of My Best Friend Is Broken
I see it happening in slow motion, the thick hand moving toward Liam’s shoulder, the casual assumption of authority, the complete misreading of the situation. I see Liam’s eyes go wide with terror, see him start to back away, see the guard’s fingers make contact with his sleeve.
And then Liam explodes.
The sound he makes isn’t quite a scream, it’s something more primal than that, more animal. He wrenches away from the guard’s touch with such violence that he stumbles backward into a display of handbags, sending them cascading across the floor.
“Don’t touch me!” he shouts, his voice cracking with panic. “Don’t fucking touch me!”
But the guard, either not understanding or not caring, lunges forward to grab him again.
“Liam, no!” I shout, but it’s too late.
Liam’s fist connects with the side of the guard’s head with a wet crack that makes several people scream. The big man staggers backward, more surprised than hurt, but now there’s blood trickling from his eyebrow and his expression has shifted from annoyed to genuinely angry.
“Right, that’s assault,” he growls, reaching for his radio. “I’m calling the police.”
“Please,” I say desperately, moving between them again. “Please, he’s not well. He’s just been released from…”
But Liam isn’t listening to any of us. He’s backed himself into the corner formed by two clothing racks, and he’s hyperventilating so badly that his lips are turning blue. His eyes are wide and unfocused, staring at something none of us can see.
“Get away from me,” he gasps, his hands raised defensively in front of his face. “Get away, get away, get away.”
He’s not in Primark anymore. He’s somewhere else entirely, somewhere dark and confined where big men in uniforms hurt people for sport. Where fighting back only makes things worse but sometimes you can’t help yourself.
I drop to my knees in front of him, careful not to touch, keeping my voice low and steady. “Liam. Liam, look at me. You’re safe. You’re with me.”
But he can’t hear me. He’s shaking so violently that the clothing racks are rattling, and the sound he’s making now definitely isn’t screaming. It’s worse. It’s the kind of broken, keening noise that comes from somewhere so deep inside that you didn’t know it existed until it tears its way out.
“I don’t want to. Don’t make me. Please don’t make me. It hurts,” Liam babbles frantically. “Please don’t. Please.”
My heart drops. Nausea rolls. Deep, deep in the dark recesses of my mind, I had wondered, had suspected. Liam was only eighteen when he went inside. And everyone in the whole fucking world has heard what happens to young men in prison. But there isn’t time to dwell on that now.
People are staring. Of course they’re staring. A crowd has formed around us, phones appearing as people start recording what to them is just another bit of drama for social media. The purple-haired cashier looks like she’s about to cry. Someone’s child is asking their mother why the man is making that noise.
“I need an ambulance,” I tell the security guard, who’s still holding his radio but looking significantly less sure of himself. “He’s having a panic attack. He needs medical help.”
“He assaulted me,” the guard protests, but his heart isn’t in it anymore. Which isn’t surprising. Liam looks so vulnerable, so broken, that it would melt even the hardest of hearts.
“He’s having a mental health crisis,” I snap. “Call a fucking ambulance.”
Liam has slid down a wall until he’s sitting on the floor, his knees drawn up to his chest, rocking back and forth. The sounds he’s making are getting quieter but somehow more heartbreaking, little whimpers of pure terror that seem to come from the very core of him.
“Liam,” I whisper, reaching out slowly. “Can you hear me?”
The moment my fingers brush his arm, he recoils so violently that his head hits the wall behind him. The impact makes a sickening thud, and when he looks up at me, there’s blood trickling from his scalp.
“He’s hurt,” someone in the crowd says unnecessarily.
“Where’s that fucking ambulance?” I shout at the security guard, who jumps and starts speaking rapidly into his radio.
I turn back to Liam, and my heart breaks completely. He’s looking at me now, really looking, and there’s recognition in his eyes. But there’s also something else, shame, deep and corrosive, like he’s mortified that I’m seeing him like this.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice so small I have to lean in to hear it. “I’m sorry, Nicky. I’m so sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I tell him fiercely. “Don’t you dare apologize. This isn’t your fault.”
But he’s already retreating back into himself, the brief moment of clarity fading as shock sets in. His eyes go glassy and unfocused again, and he starts rocking once more, humming tunelessly under his breath.
The ambulance arrives with a wail of sirens that makes half the crowd outside press their faces to the windows. Two paramedics push through the throng of gawkers with professional efficiency, taking in the scene with practiced eyes.
