Page 83 of Surviving Slater

"You feeling better?" he asked, and I nodded.

"You want something to drink?" he asked. "There's soda or whiskey."

I needed alcohol.

"Whiskey, please."

He opened a small bottle and poured some into a glass for me. He handed it to me before sitting down again. I sat down on the bottom of the bed and stared at the light brown liquid.

I took a gulp and it burned all the way down my throat. I liked the pain; it detracted from the pain inside me. Now that I had admitted I wasn't okay, I felt more vulnerable. The alcohol warmed my blood and I felt a fuzzy feeling in my stomach.

Coming here had been a mistake. Burdening him with this hadn't been fair. I had to leave.

I finished the drink in a few more gulps before I stood up and put the glass down. But the reality was my clothes and shoes were still wet. I couldn't walk home barefoot in Slater's clothes in the rain again.

Slater watched me quietly as I walked over to the window and opened the curtain slightly to see it was still raining quite hard. I could always call my mother to come and pick me up but she still had a household full of visitors.

"I'm sorry," I said to Slater before I turned to face him.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, looking a little perplexed.

"For showing up like I did." For the first time the repercussions of my actions began to dawn on me. "I should leave. I shouldn't be here."

He stood up. "Don't leave. I told you if you needed anything I was here."

I didn't believe he actually meant it. They were hollow words people said to make themselves feel better.

"Okay." I felt nervous so I clutched my hands.

Knowing more about his past made me look at him differently. It made me care more about him, despite knowing it wasn't a good idea and it would only lead to more pain.

"Why did you come here?" he asked, watching me closely.

"I didn't have anywhere else to go." I swallowed hard, dropping my eyes to the patterned brown carpet.

Memories began to seep in, reminding me of the disgust I felt for myself. I felt dirty for the actions of another and I didn't know how to fix it. Even his death hadn't released me from the demons. Some fear had disappeared with his death, but it didn't erase it.

"Are you going to tell me what's wrong?" he asked, cocking his head to the side.

My eyes lifted to his and I bit my lip. I wanted to tell someone but opening up to him would burden him with my deepest, darkest secret. The last time I had given him the choice, he had walked away. This time I didn't think I could cope with that.

I shook my head. "I can't."

"Why not?" he asked. He was somehow closer to me than before. That strange feeling in the bottom of my stomach felt like a flutter at being so close to him.

"Because you don't want the responsibility of knowing. We've been here before and we know which option you went for the last time. Once I've told you, there is no going back."

I paused.

"Every time you look at me you will think about it. It will change how you see me. There won't be a time that you don't see it in my eyes or wonder if I'm thinking about it, but it won't matter because it will be onyourmind. It will always be there, a part of me."

I expected him to close down and walk away again, but he remained fixed to the spot.

His eyes searched mine. "Tell me."

I was a little stunned. It wasn't what I had expected. I swallowed. Now I wasn't sure if I could do that. Had I only decided to tell him because I had been convinced he wouldn't want to hear it? I didn't know if I could open up and allow him to see the true me—the one who carried the wound of childhood abuse.

But then I remembered he walked with the same wound. We had both been abused; maybe it was the reason I felt he, above everyone else, would understand.