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Connor threw up again in his own toilet. And threw up again, and again, and when he thought he'd thrown up everything he dug two fingers down his throat and retched up the last of it. Even then he still felt it clawing at his insides. He gagged into the bowl, stomach lurching but nothing left to come up. He dragged himself into the shower and scrubbed at his skin until it was raw and little spots of red decorated his body. Except he couldn't touch there he couldn't even think about there without retching again but he was so, so dirty. So filthy. Like there were bugs under his skin.
Connor let his anxiety stop him from preventing something he wasn't ready for.
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