Blind Eye

54

Fire — blaring through the walls and the floor, curling across the ceiling in violent yellow sheets. Heat. Pain. A sound like the world tearing apart-

A crash of breaking glass.

Logan jerked awake. Heart pounding. Eyes wide in the darkness. Everything was soggy. Oh fuck… he'd wet himself.

No, it was just sweat. He folded his arms across his face and muffled a scream. Then slumped back in his chair and stared up at the dark orange sky, waiting for his heartbeat to go from thrash-metal to slow waltz.

Every — bloody — night.

He tried to stand, but his legs weren't working properly. Finally, he managed to haul himself upright, leaning heavily on the table to stay that way, something scrunching beneath his shoes. It was the vodka bottle, spread in glittering shards all over the patio tiles. Good thing it'd been empty.

He blinked. Swallowed. Peered at his watch until it came into focus. 03:45. Probably still a bit drunk. But not feeling too bad. Thirsty. A bit achy after falling asleep in a wrought-iron garden chair, but other than that he was… he was…

That's when the nausea kicked in.

Logan staggered across the garden, in through the patio doors, the kitchen going by in a blur as he lurched out the other side and into the hall.

He was going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be sick, going to be…

A thin sliver of light seeped out under the downstairs bathroom door, but Logan didn't care. He wrenched the door open.

And stopped dead.

Rory was in there, bent nearly double over the bathroom sink. Trousers around his ankles. Pounding away. And then he froze: one hand wrapped around his erection, the other clutching a thick catalogue. Children's clothes. Little girls running around, grinning for the camera. 'It's… it's not what you think…'

Logan stepped inside and closed the bathroom door.