Gemma follows my gaze. “Security insisted on looking through everyone’s trailers just in case another shooter was lingering behind,” she says.
I nod, even if I’m still a little confused by everything. I turn on the television and the music I was listening to earlier blares through the speakers. The room seems to spin again when I glance around, unsure of what to do or where to start, and one look at Gemma tells me she’s just as unsure.
“Do you want…” Gemma pushes her curly hair back, avoiding my eyes, her hands coming to a rest on her hips. “I’ll just… I’ll be outside. Give you some space so you can—”
“Stay,” I blurt.
I can’t be on my own right now.
I don’t know what I’ll do. I don’t know what the spiral might look like.
Gemma’s face softens as if that word is the one thing that can bring her to her knees.
“I… I don’t think I want to be alone,” I admit, swallowing, my eyes fluttering to keep away the tears. “And I can’t… I can barely move, andI really want to shower.”
I don’t know why that one sentence has me ready to sob.
But god, it does.
“Okay.”
I nearly collapse when she agrees.
She sniffs back what sounds like her own emotion and reaches for my face, swiping a tear from my eye. “I have you. Always,” she whispers. “Do you want me to help you? Or do you want me to make sure no one comes in while you get clean?”
“Can you do both?” I ask hoarsely.
A smile flinches at the corner of her lips. “Yeah. I can do both.”
Her touch is delicate as she attempts to peel off my clothes, ending up cutting some of them with scissors so I don’t have to lift my arms or struggle to get out of the tight fabrics.
I want to claw my skin off with it.
Gemma has the shower steaming by the time I’m ready to step under the water. The first hit makes me flinch. I don’t know why I’m trembling, why I can’t seem to take a full breath or get a fucking grip. It’s just water. It shouldn’t feel like a thousand hands groping me without permission.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Gemma holds my arms and helps me breathe through the pressure of the water hitting my shoulders. I keep blowing out breaths, unable to stop the tears mingling in the water. She doesn’t speak, and honestly, I’m grateful for it. The last thing I want right now is someone telling me how strong I am, how I can overcome this, how I just need to breathe, or I’m doingso wellfor getting up and going on.
Because go fuck yourself.
Thissucks. I’m not okay. Every movement is hard. Every thought feels like a bullet in my head. I’m numb and overstimulated all at once. I don’t know if I can take another inhale without the feeling of daggers in my chest, and I don’t know how long this feeling is going to last. Everything feels sofucking hopeless. Life shouldn’t be like this. It shouldn’t be this fucking hard just to go on existing one more day.
Five minutes.
Five fucking minutes.
Pink water stains the bottom of the shower as I eventually find the strength to fully stand under it, my eyes closed. I’m counting the beats of the music sounding outside the open bathroom door, my heel tapping on the floor. It’s the only thing keeping me from a downward spiral—the steady, predictable phrases. The four-counts, the occasional three-counts… the verse-chorus formula, the breakdowns that raise chills over your arms…
And Gemma’s nails scratching my scalp as she washes my hair.
I feel pathetic about this, for the fact that she’s brushed the glass out of the strands and is now washing away the blood. She’s taking her time, moving her hands methodically when she eventually helps me wash. I avoid her gaze the entire time—out of embarrassment, fear…everything.
