take care } a justice series

 JUSTICE FRAY

It was as simple as—"Pick a room, it's yours."

I didn't think much of it at the time. I have too many empty rooms to be able to keep track of them all, I wasn't the most sober person when I told her to stay with me, and really—how bad could it be? I was only ever home to sleep anyway. It was likely I'd never see her, especially since she couldn't come to the bars with me anymore. She'd stay on her side of the house and I'd stay on mine—simple and worry free.

I've never been the smartest man. And more often than not, I'm entirely wrong. Figures this was no exception to that rule.

I haven't had a single drink in an entire month.

The first few days were intolerable. My stomach twisted and clenched until all I could do was heave uselessly into the toilet, stomach empty long before the nausea passed. Twelve hours of sobriety and I could already feel myself caving again, tremors shaking me to the core, hands begging to hold a bottle and sweat dripping down the length of my spine making me shiver.

I felt like I was living in a nightmare. My mind and my heart gnawed at one another as my vision faded in and out. I felt them all, lurking just around the corner, hiding in my mirror. And I heard their voices again, their screams, their whimpers of pain.

It was everything that ever drove me to drink in the first place colliding into one endless nightmare. And I wanted so badly to stop it, to run again into the sweet, warm embrace of whiskey, but my muscles refused to move me—even when my cheek was pressed to the cold bathroom tile and a soft knock came from the other side of the door.

"I'm fine," I mutter, head pounding when the next few knocks bash against my ears.

"I'm fine!"

I locked her out; I didn't want her to see me like that. Of course in my foggy state of mind I'd forgotten to consider the insignificance of a locked bathroom door to a pregnant woman.

"I have five sisters, do you really think I don't know how to pick a lock--"

"Fuck's sake," I groan, temples pulsing and arms refusing to move so that I can push myself up off the floor. I keep my cheek pressed to the floor, the cold my only relief.

"Oh."

"Please, Poppy, just go away."

I don't actually know if she does or not. My eyelids are too heavy and all my ears are doing is ringing as a fever slowly begins to take over. My arms clutch at each other squeezing until I stop shivering. My heart begins to race, faster and faster until I'm sure it'll burst from my chest if this goes on much longer.

I don't know how long I just lay there with my eyes closed, but Poppy is still there with legs crossed and a glass of water at her side. And I hate that she's seeing me this way—"Thought I told you to leave?"—but I reach for the water anyway, stomach protesting even at the idea of consumption.

"Just shut up and drink the water."

It takes all my strength just to sit up. Back pressed against my vanity, I force the water down. Force it to stay down despite the way my mouth sweats and my stomach churns. I'm too ashamed to look at her, shirt soaked in sweat, hair slick against my head, and lungs heaving just to catch up with my racing heart.

She stays quiet next to me and I'm thankful for that. It's not like I'd be able to answer any of her questions truthfully anyway. Hell, I can barely answer the questions myself—Sobriety looks good on everyone, sure, but why now? What happened?—how am I supposed to look her in the eyes and give her one?

"Go on," I say, nudging her with my elbow. "Tell me I did this to myself. I deserve it, stop being a pussy, whatever."

I take a shuddering breath, let my head fall back and my eyes close. I even manage to force a grin despite the pain thrumming through my skull. It's too late to pretend this isn't bad, but that doesn't stop me from trying anyway. Even if I do know she can see right through me.

"I'm just scared all the time for you."

I locked the door for a reason. I knew this was going to be a mess. More than a mess, I knew this was going to be painful not just for me, but for her, too. I don't like scaring her. I don't like hurting her or worrying her. But somehow I always manage to. Even now when all I want to do is stop drinking so she doesn't have to worry anymore—so that she can stop taking care of me and I can prove that I can do the same for her.

I can be the relationship kind of guy. Just as much as that guy Ellie apparently is—"I want you to be around as long as I am."—and I can be around forever. And I can be sober and I can stop going out and I can give my entire heart and soul to one person.

I wish I was him.

I want to be him.

And I know I will never be him.

But I'm too much of a stubborn fool to stop trying.

I bend awkwardly until my head rests on her shoulder, arms limp on the floor and leg sprawled out in front of me. I feel like a child, small and helpless, desperate for any sort of closeness that might ease the pain. Vulnerability never looked good on me, never felt all that great either. Not when you're born into a Career family in District 1 and not when you're supposed to be a victor worthy of glory and fame.

But it's so hard, being strong all the time.

"Don't worry about me," I say, eyes squeezed shut so that I don't search for comfort in her eyes.

"I'm not going anywhere without you."