Page 35 of Sunrise

This is between me and Vault. No one else.

She may know what happened to him back in the day, but she wasn’t there. She doesn’t understand fully. Neither does Ryker.

Honestly… neither do I.

No one knows unless you’ve been in that position yourself…

I’ve sent Vault a dozen texts that have all been left on delivered. Fucker’s ignoring me? That’s not okay. We haven’t seen each other for three days, thanks to that damn volunteer work he does, and my insecure ass has convinced myself that he’s found someone better than me in the past seventy-two hours.

That’s also not okay.

I’m working on my inferiority complex, I swear.

Knocking on his door, no one answers, so I use the key he gave me for when I need a break from my pops and a safe space to cool down in. It’s Monday. I skipped school because his location on my cell says he’s here.

“Alex!” I check his room first. “Where the fuck are you?”

I hear him in the bathroom, vomiting.

Shit.

“Yo…” I push open the door. “You got the flu or something?”

I nearly piss myself when I see him curled on the floor, one arm around the toilet seat. He’s a fucking wreck. Pale cheeks, veins bursting around red eyes. He’s shaking like a heroin addict in need of a fix.

“What the fuck’s wrong?” I drop down beside him to help.

“Don’t touch me.”

“Let me help you.” We can die of the plague together if it’s contagious. “Did you eat something bad at—”

“Don’t touch me!” he screams, cowering into thecorner by his tub.

I throw my hands up as I step closer to him. He screams and kicks me away. “Alex, stop!”

“Don’t look at me!”

I… I don’t know what to do. I just know there’s no way in hell I’m going to leave him alone like this. So, I sit down and give him space. I focus on the grey grout lines of his bathroom tile and rock back and forth, waiting patiently for him to get better.

We stay that way until he’s cried every last drop of moisture out of his body. It’s been hours. All I want to do is hold him. Make him better.

Because I know what’s happened.

I see the blood stain on his boxers.

I see the bruising on his wrists.

I see the scratches down his back.

He didn’t get into the kind of fight I sometimes do. He got into something a million times worse.

“Who did it?” Because they’re going to die. “Who fucking did it, Alex?”

He’s going catatonic. Eyes glazed over, he’s slumped against the wall, listing towards the tub.

Tears I don’t feel drip down my face, soaking my shirt.

He’s mine.

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