Page 81 of Pucking Feral: Part Two

"Wraith?" Whiskey asks.

Says something else.

Can't hear him over the ringing in my ears.

My legs give out.

I don't remember deciding to sit, but suddenly I'm on the floor, back against one of the equipment cases, knees drawn up to my chest.

My hands are shaking.

My whole body is shaking.

The gaiter feels like it's strangling me but I can't take it off, can't ever take it off, because now everyone knows what's underneath and Whiskey probably even fucking hates me now and they'll be looking and waiting and watching for any glimpse of⁠—

"Hey. Hey, hey, hey." Whiskey crouches in front of me. He's holding something. A water bottle. Shoving it toward my face. "Drink this. You're gonna pass out. Drink the fucking water, Wraith."

I push his hand away with a low growl.

Don't want water.

Want Ivy.

Need Ivy.

Can't text her, but I can look at her texts.

My hands fumble for my pocket but they're shaking so badly the phone slips through my fingers, clattering to the concrete floor.

I reach for it.

Miss it.

Reach again.

My vision keeps blurring.

End up with palms planted on the ground.

I'm going to throw up right here in front of Whiskey and prove I'm exactly as pathetic as I look in that photo.

A dead-eyed zombie too broken to handle seeing what everyone else now gets to see whenever they want by looking it up on the fucking internet.

Whiskey touches my shoulder.

Says something I can't hear over blood rushing.

Something about Ivy and breathe.

I whirl on him with a snarl.

Fall back against the concrete wall.

Snarl, curl in on myself, gripping my fucking head.

Can't breathe.

Can't think.