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You don't know what to do.
heknowsheknowsheknows
You don't know what to do. You can't move. Every part of you hurts.
heknows
You feel like you're twelve again. You feel that heavy, overbearing terror that your walls are closing in. That the only escape is wrapping yourself in your blanket and pretending each part of your evil little body has disappeared.
heknows
Your breath is shallow in your lungs. Your arms are heavy. You feel nauseous and trapped. It reminds you of being eleven and feeling resigned. Of laying out a towel on your bedroom floor and kneeling atop it, folding your legs beneath yourself. Of the weight and heft of Bro's shitty sword in your hands, and the chime of pesterchum shattering your focus.
heknows
He won't be here this time. He won't unwittingly comfort you, bring you back to yourself, make you feel as if someone in the world actually knows you exist and gives a shit. Not anymore. Not now that he knows how horrible you are.
Near your head, the tinny sound of goofy, upbeat 80s jazz bursts from your phone. You feel cold. You're frozen. You can't even turn your head to look at the source of the theme song playing in your ear; can't even lift your arm to terminate it. Eventually it silences itself. You close your eyes and imagine never opening them again.
heknows
You can't even think of a good reason for him to call you. Maybe he wanted to make sure you knew he was no longer your friend. Maybe he wanted to let you know just what a filthy little slut you were. It's not like you'd done anything to the contrary. You'd jumped into his pants three days after actually meeting him in person. You'd swallowed his dick, his cum, like a pro, like the tramp you are, like you've been trained.
heknows
The Ghostbusters theme erupts from your phone again. You open your eyes, stare at the ceiling. You know this surface by heart. You've memorized each groove and ridge, studied its texture with your legs spread, pinned beneath sweat-slicked flesh.
The ringtone refuses to give it up. Lifting your hand is like dragging it through murky water, but you might as well get this over with. You answer your phone in silence.
_ _ _
You're at your wit's end.
You couldn't sleep all last night. Every time you closed your eyes, your brain replayed the sound of Dave gasping, of him sobbing weakly across the distance between the two of you. You would open them again, stare at the ceiling until your breathing settled, get up and get back on your computer, hoping against hope that Dave would be back online. He invariably wasn't, and you would sit, staring at your monitor for a while, get up and pace your room for a bit, crawl back into bed and start the whole cycle over. Gray slivers of dawn were creeping across the sky when the sound of your dad starting his morning routine made you pause mid-pace, fingers clutching fistfuls of your hair. It was a school day. You had forgotten entirely in your preoccupation. Your dad would be expecting you downstairs soon.
When you showed up at the breakfast table, the smell of food made you nauseous. Dad took one look at your face and was shuffling you back upstairs, mother henning you the whole way. He checked your temperature, asked if you had an upset stomach as he herded you back to your room. You couldn't say anything. All his doting did was remind you of what you saw last night, how awful a friend you were for not noticing it, how selfish you were for being safe at home, with your caring father looking after you, and still wanting to cry.
After your dad left you home to go to work, you crawled out of bed and returned to the kitchen for the wireless. You curled up in front of your computer, watching pesterchum intently, and started calling Dave around 9.
At 1 in the afternoon, you finally get more than a redirect to his voicemail.
The silence on the other end of the line confuses you. Cautiously, carefully, you speak first.
"Dave? "
Your voice wavers, almost unfamiliar to your ears. Another long pause follows the question before, finally, you're answered with a flat, dispassionate, "Yeah."
Your breath comes to you shakily. You run a hand through your hair, inhaling slow before words come tumbling out of you, all in a rush.
"Dave, what's going on? Last night I...last night..."
Too soon your voice cracks, your throat tightens and you feel a swell of tears. You curl over in your chair, squeezing your eyes shut. You have no right, you tell yourself. Only silence, and the faint sound of breathing, come through your phone. Softly, again you ask, "...Dave?"
A heavy sigh and a pause preface the sound of Dave's voice as it cracks almost imperceptibly.
"Why are you still talking to me?"
Horrified and confused, your mouth falls open slightly. "W-what?" you manage to stammer.
"You hate me, don't you?" Dave sounds resigned and hopeless. "Why would you still wanna talk to me if you hate me?"
"Dave," you say gently. "Why would I hate you?"
The whimper that comes down the line makes your chest hurt. You bite your lip when your phone answers, "Because you know how disgusting I am.
"You know how weak and pathetic I am," Dave's voice is tight and desperate as it continues. You feel the heat of tears prick at your eyes. "You know what a fucking slut I am."
"Dave!" the sudden rage that expells Dave's name from your lips startles you. It silences Dave altogether, and you continue in a gentler tone. "L-Last night...that...that wasn't your fault."
Bitterly, Dave tries to cut across you. “Fuckin'- of course it is, dude! I'm the one that always lets it happen! I'm the one that fuckin' leads him on!”
”You're not-” you stop him, before a horrified realisation makes you pause a beat. “Always? Dave, how long has this been going on?”
Heavy silence falls over the phone line and you're frantically searching your memory, trying to find any clue or tell. You should have known, something had to have changed, something you should have noticed. Yet, even scouring all your recollections of talking with him, Dave seems to have remained oddly static over the time you've known him. He's always been dodgy talking about his brother, always had this odd manner of not talking about himself personally by just talking way too much. Even when the two of you were younger, when you first met, you thought he was so cool because he knew all the swears you didn't, and told dirty jokes, and seemed to know so much more about grown-up stuff than you did. An icy feeling settles in your chest as the implications slowly come to you, and you muffle your gasp with your palm when Dave's voice, small and ashamed, softly confirms, “Four years.”
”Since we were eleven?!” Your hand moves to clutch at the side of your head, your voice pitched high by your short breath.
”Yeah,” Dave's answer sounds meek, resigned. You drag your fingers through your hair.
”We have to do something!” you declare hurriedly. Incredibly, you're answered by a cynical snort.
”There ain't nothin' you can do 'bout it, Egbert,” Dave mutters miserably. He sounds so far from the friend you've known that you're struck by a sudden spike of rage.
”No, listen!” you snap. The freeze inside you blooms into heat, rushes into your face. You're shocked, and horrified, and mad – so mad, so furious - at yourself for never realising; at how the fuck could someone- How could anyone- when you were kids! “This isn't...this isn't fucking okay, Dave! I can't- do you seriously think I'm just gonna sit back and let this keep happening?!”
”M'fine, dude,” the sound of your friend's voice, thick with suppressed tears, only winds you higher. “It ain't nothin' I can't handle. Y'don't gotta get all bent outta shape over me, man.”
You smack your desktop so loud you think he hears it over the phone, because he's already shut up when you bark an angry, “No!
”Dave, you're my best friend,” you urgently fill the silence you created. “You can't ask me to act like this isn't happening. Look...I've- I've gotta talk to my dad, but-”
”No!” This time, Dave's shout stops you in your tracks. You even jerk your head back reflexively, managing to get out a confused, “W-What?”
”Don't y'fuckin' dare, Egbert!” Dave snaps. Your eyebrows pull down into a scowl.
”B-But, he'll know what to do!” you insist, a little frustrated at Dave for being such an obstinate butt. “He'll know how to help!”
”I don't fuckin' care,” Dave snarls. “This shit ain't yours t'be spreadin' around!”
All the anger and helpless frustration of the situation boils up inside you, and for a moment you can't help but direct it towards the one person who really doesn't deserve it. “That's not what I'm doing, Dave!” you answer, with just as much vehemence as your friend. “Dad'll know what to do better than I will. He'll know how to help you.”
A new stretch of silence falls between you, dampening your ire. You instantly feel like a dick for yelling at Dave. Your temper softens as the hesitation gives you time to think of how long he's held onto this secret, how ashamed he must be if he's never told you, this whole time you've known him. The hopeless, defeated tone he finally answers you with robs you of the last of your fight.
”Ain't nothin' he can help, Egbert.”
”But...” you insist. “Dave, your brother's hurting you – like, seriously hurting you.”
”Shit, Egbert, y'think I don't know that?” he answers with an almost disdainful hiss. You scramble to cover yourself.
”No, Dave, I didn't mean-”
”Ain't nothin' gonna stop it, either way,” Dave says over you, his voice thick and choked.
”But...” you protest again, desperate to fix this. “You want it to stop, don't you?”
Yet another silence answers you, before a light sniffle. You close your eyes, honestly thinking you can feel your heart break when a tiny, soft voice finally tells you, “Yes.”
You raise your hand from your desk, leaning your head into your palm for support as you take a deep breath. You feel the heat in your eyes as you confirm, “Y-You want to get out of there, right?”
Your tears spill over as you hear a second, nearly whispered, “Yes.”
”Okay...” another long inhale. “Okay, look...” you sit up straight, raking fingers through your hair. “I'm gonna tell my dad, okay?” Dave makes a soft, half-hearted grunt of protest. “We'll figure something out,” you continue over him. “He'll know what to do. We'll get you out of there, okay Dave?”
From the tense quality of the, “Mm-hmm” that Dave gives you, you can tell he really is crying as well. You wipe your face dry, feeling like you should say more.
”Dave...” you say gently. “It's gonna be okay – we'll get you out of there.”
”I'm sorry,” is his only choked response.
”No! Nonono!” you rush. “You don't- it's not your fault, Dave. None of this is your fault.”
”It is...”
”It's not,” you reply firmly, sucking a harsh breath through your nose to quell the new surge of hatred for Bro that wells in you. You look down at the clock on your computer. It's nearly 3 in the afternoon.
“Dave...”
”Yeah?”
”I'm gonna go now,” you tell him with a sigh. “Dad'll be home from work in a couple hours.”
”Okay,” the response is still tense with emotion, so different from how you're used to hearing Dave.
”If I don't see you online later tonight, I'll give you a call and let you know what's up, okay?”
”Okay.”
You curl in on yourself a little, looking down at your lap. You feel like you should still reassure Dave, but anything you think of feels hollow and impotent.
”Dave?” you venture softly.
”Yeah?”
”It'll be over soon, I promise.”
”O-Okay,” he actually stutters, a pleading undertone in the word that makes you bite your lip and swallow the sudden lump in your throat.
”I'll talk to you later.”
”Okay.”
For a long while after you end the call, you stare at your phone miserably. You hope to God that Dad will be able to come up with a plan to help, because right now you really don't know what to do.