Page 49 of Bitter When He Begs

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?” I ask, voice calm, but loud enough to slice through the haze in his head.

He startles, turning like a cornered animal. “I just need to get some air.”

“Bullshit.”

He stares at me, defiant for exactly two seconds before his face crumples. “I can’t do this, Damon.”

I walk up to him slowly, and take the keys out of his hand. “Yeah, you can.”

He sinks to the floor right there in the hall, back against the door, head in his hands. I sit with him, but neither of us says anything for a long time.

It’s three in the morning, and I’m sitting on the floor of his bathroom watching him dry heave into the toilet bowl for the fifth time tonight. His skin is pale, drenched in cold sweat, and he looks like something you’d scrape off the bottom of a shoe.

When he’s finally back in bed, he curls into a fetal position and shakes so hard the bed frame creaks. “You should’ve left me alone,” he rasps.

“Nope,” I say, placing a damp cloth on his forehead. “Not happening.”

“You think this makes you a fucking hero?” he hisses, voice cracking.

I raise an eyebrow. “No. It makes me someone who actually gives a shit.”

“Just one,” he mutters, “Just one fucking pill, Damon. That’s all I need.”

I reach out and press the washcloth to the back of his neck. “You say that every twenty minutes, man.”

He glares at me like I’m the villain in all this. Maybe I am, since I’m the one holding the line and not giving in. I’m the one stopping him from slipping back into the silence he’s always used as a crutch.

“You don’t fucking get it,” he whispers.

I do. I really fucking do.

“Yeah, Luca, I do get it. I’ve done the crying on the bathroom floor, throwing up every hour and hallucinating spiders under my skin. I was alone when I went through that shit, and I don’t want that for you.”

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t need to. I see the shame in his eyes. He thinks he’s weak, but he’s not. This is what strong looks like.

By day four, he’s broken.

Not just physically. Emotionally. Mentally. He’s on the floor of his bathroom, hunched over the toilet, body wracked with dry heaves. He hasn’t eaten properly in thirty-six hours. His lips are cracked. His knuckles are raw from gripping the sink.

I kneel beside him with a glass of water, and he barely acknowledges it.

“Fuck, Damon,” he whispers, voice hoarse and low. “Just… give me something.Please.”

My heart fucking breaks. “I can’t do that, Luca.”

“Please,” he begs. “Don’t make me suffer when I don’t have to. This is the longest… I haven’t been off it for this long before.”

I press the glass into his hands. “You’re not suffering for nothing.”

He downs half of it, then rests his forehead on his knees. “I hate you right now,” he says. “I want to punch you in the face.”

“I know.”

“I’m going to buy more the second you leave.”

“I’m not leaving.”

He chokes out a bitter laugh. “Of course you’re not.”

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