Sick
Dan wanted to die. He wanted to shrivel up and die. Here he was roaming the streets of Manchester,barefoot, looking like a fucking mess. His feet were damp and freezing, contrary to the intense heat rising up his neck and tainting his cheeks; this was humiliating.
He couldn't go back, though. Not now. His pride was far too great. His nails dug into the skin of his palm. Curse him and his fucking pride. Not to mention, what would Phil think of him now? He was so mature, tactful; Dan was just a big, pouty baby.
He groaned and hugged his arms around his body and continued walking. He wished he could say he felt the eyes of the people around him burning into his flesh, judging him, but it was the complete opposite. No one gave him a second glance. People didn't want to look at him; the secondhand embarrassment striking pity into hearts. Poor kid. Does he know how ridiculous he looks?
Quickening his pace, Dan ducked into a nearby coffee shop. The bell on the door rang out, attracting the attention of a few customers. Some did a double take, a few stared and whispered to whoever was around to listen. He looked stupid. He was stupid. And it didn't take a genius to realize what he was.
The coffee shop had gone silent; the clinking of silverware and slurping of drinks all ceased filling the small, homey building. The only noise to be heard was the squishy suction sound of his muddy feet accompanied with reproachful whispers as he made the walk of shame to the restrooms. Dan cringed, realizing that there was no way he wasn't leaving small, dirty footprints on the tiles of the cafe. The floor was pearly white, obviously cleaned regularly to produce a sparkly gleam to let the customers know that Hey, you won't find rat pellets in your coffee! Come give us your money!
And here was Dan. The rat.
He was so embarrassed. He hugged himself tighter, a lump forming in his throat as he resisted the urge to break down.
Dan pushed open the door to the restroom and shuffled inside; the air around him grew tight as he slid down the wall and crouched on the floor. Dan hugged his knees to his chest. He could hear his heart beating in his ears and every breath felt like a hurricane. His eyes squeezed shut as tears leaked out and a sob escaped his lips. He prayed no one was in here with him. That no one could see the thick saliva coating his mouth, the tears flooding in his eyes. He felt his nose begin to run and he sniffed, taking in short quick breaths through his mouth. He could hardly breathe.
Dan hated himself. He hated that he was so fucking ugly when he cried. Movies were shit; no one looks good when they're sad. He hated that he ran. He hated that he was embarrassed, that he was too prideful to even think about going back to the flat. He hated how weak he was, how emotional he was. He hated the fact that he was overreacting. He hated that he was stupid. He hated himself. He hated everything. Hate hate hate.
"I hate myself I hate myself, fucking kill me."
Thinking about it, Dan came to the conclusion that PJ probably hates his guts. Dan probably hurt his feelings. Dan is such an asshole.
He wondered what his mom would say.
Dan's body shook. It felt like water was rushing in his ears, the sound so deafening that he almost missed it - the sound of a flush. He wasn't alone.
How humiliating.
He buried his face in his knees, pleading. Please don't see me. Don't talk to me.
Dan didn't look up to see who was with him. He focused on stilling his body, keeping silent. He sniffed, the sound echoing in the now eerily quiet bathroom.
Dan tried to judge the stranger's actions from what he could hear. A stall door opening. A squeak and then the sound of running water. The water stops. The noise of a paper towel dispenser being used. A rip. Shuffling. Then silence.
He didn't hear the door. The stranger was still here.
Suddenly, there was a sick, rolling feeling in the pit of Dan's stomach. His chest begin to burn and an endless swell of tears began streaming down his cheeks, the salty drops dripping under his chin and onto his shirt. His head was pounding, breathing wasn't even an option.
Dan cried out. He whined. He choked. Everything was so numb it hurt. He tried to stop crying but to no avail.
His head shot up from where it was resting between his knees and collided with the wall behind him. The pain in his chest and stomach was unbearable. He squirmed, pressing on it in hopes it would subside the pain.
He couldn't stop this. It was out of his control.
Dan whined, breathing heavily through his nose. His eyes squeezed shut. The nausea became worse and a metallic taste covered his tongue; his stomach lurched.
Hot, acidic vomit spewed from his throat, over his tongue and splattered on the tile. He could hardly see anything through his tears and felt unbelievably dizzy. When the wave of sickness finally passed, Dan fell over. There he lay, covered in his own vile, sticky puke. It covered his hair, his clothes. It was horrific and it smelled gross and felt gross and Dan could honestly care less at this point.
His vision began to go black and static filled his brain. A few fading thoughts crossed his mind.
The fact that the stranger sneered,
"Disgusting." before he left.
The fact that those emotions disappeared with the slam of a door.
And the fact that someone was going to find him laying in his own vomit.
How humiliating.