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He cleared his throat and that seemed to hurt his ribcage. “How come you guys are still talking to me?”
“This isn’t talking, this is gloating,” said Jamie.
“Yeah, this makes me feel like a freaking genius,” said Sam.
So the chances of getting one of them to find his phone so he could call Georgia were remote and frozen over like Antarctica. “Would you—”
“Nope.” Jamie.
“I need—”
“No way.” Sam.
“I have to talk to Georgia.”
“Forget it.” Angus. Shit, he was still here. Was that better or worse?
“Fuck.”
Angus moved closer. “You need to think about what you just did, apart from nearly getting yourself killed. Bloody selfish to do that to all of us, and for what? Stinking pride, Damon. Fucking stupid ego. Did you really think it would make any difference to us if we knew?”
“We still don’t know.” Oh Jesus, Taylor still here too. “What can you see?” He put his hand to his head. The concussion was going to make him cry.
“Nothing. I can see nothing.” He sighed. “No light, no shapes, no movement.”
“Maate,” from Sam, and Taylor’s hand on his leg over the sheet. She’d hit his sore knee and he flinched.
“I screwed up.”
“Understatement of the millennium.” Jamie moving around the room.
“I’ll fix it.”
“Major fucking breach of trust, Damon.” Angus, an immoveable object and righteous in his anger.
Damon dropped his head into his hands and that hurt too and the room spun and spun with fake rotations and the real damage he’d done. I’m sorry wasn’t going to cut it, but it had to be said, as a start. He coughed and his head pounded.
“I’m sorry.” There was a hubbub of movement, feet shuffling, clothing ruffling, voices mingling, murmuring words too low to distinguish. Taylor’s hand lifted away. He cleared his throat. “I know that’s not enough. I don’t know what else to say.”
“You’re The Voice, you better find some words. You better find some way to make those words feel real.” Angus from across the room
More movement, this time he picked it as the group preparing to leave. Exactly what they should do, leave his sorry arse to sweat in the mess he’d made. He didn’t want them to go. There’d be a nurse, someone paid to help, someone whose opinion he didn’t need to care about, who’d treat him as a professional and forget him the moment he was gone. He didn’t want to be left alone with no familiar voices to guide him in the world.
“We’re going.” Angus, with no apology for it.
“You need to sleep.” Jamie.
“The nurses are cute. But not Bruce. He’s not your type.” Sam.
Taylor’s hand to his cheek. “I’ll be here to pick you up in the morning.” The gentle stroke of her thumb along his cheekbone. “I hate you right now.”
Movement. A phone ringing. Sam said, “Yeah, sorry, dude. I’ll be there in ten.” Everyone else’s life was going on without him. Silence in the room. Only the distant noise from outside.
He was alone with a head that felt five times too heavy for his body, with the swilling nausea and the aches and pains and the weight of reality. He saw nothing. He’d carried on as though that was nothing, he’d hurt the people he relied on and loved as if they were less than nothing and he’d likely reduced his relationship with Georgia to nothing, when it was on the fast track to meaning everything.
He leaned over the side of the bed and vomited. The smell of it, the sound it made as it splattered on the floor, made him retch again.
They’d left him, but they’d given him exactly what he needed from them. No sympathy. He’d never wanted that and, when they might’ve justifiably served it up, they were calling him to task on his behaviour. He loved these people and he’d find a way to make it up to them, and to Georgia too.
