It’s a fucking chore to practically carry him through the dense crowd, the scent of booze and drugs burning my nose.
It’d only burn for a little bit—
“Quiet.”
“I-I’m sorry, Ten,” Hatley chokes out.
He’s muttering it over and over, crying into my shoulder, and seeing him like this is ripping me to shreds while simultaneously tempting me to join him.
And I’m not sure which is worse as I stare straight ahead.
Right past the line of coke cut up and pretty on the table. The beer pong table that has turned into a bar littered with alcohol. The pipes lit up. The bongs bubbling with breath.
The spoons.
Needles.
Emmett’s in the truck. Em’s waiting. Emmett. Em.
“Hat-tley,” I stutter out when his weight gets heavier, my hands gone numb. “Please keep walking. We gotta get to Em. He’s in the t-truck.”
“I’m so sorry, Ten.”
He’s shaking, his feet dragging with each step we gain.
I’mshaking with the temptation to turn any direction beside straight and find a fix that’ll make all of this better.
It’ll only be temporary, I know that.
Just a short high.
But the itching in my hands would stop.
The pain in my chest would disappear.
The tension keeping me upright as I push through would ease.
Until it didn’t.
My stomach rolls as we hit fresh air, its thickness choking me. The porch seems like it lasts a mile, the truck even farther away.
Too far.
If I just turned around, it would be better.
I could just disappear into the haze, right along with my best friend.
“Tristen.”
I’m gasping for air as I drag Hatley across the grass towards the truck and we both fall to the ground.
“Get … him,” I choke out and it’sshaky. I’m shaky.
Everything hurts.
My chest expands but I can’t pull in enough air.
It’s tight. So tight that it hurts and I curl into it.
