She didn't fight him when he took her arm. He shouldn't be standing, yeah? Even with the headache and paranoia trickle of a crash starting, she knew that. She wasn't used to this, either. She was used to being tar sick. Physical, but nothing in the head, and like the flu. It wasn't like this, and this wasn't her usual, and still she just stood there. Because she'd done enough damage. She'd done enough, and she knew he should go see a doctor, and he wouldn't do it if she fought, if she ran.
She let him take her arm, and she let him move her to the inside of the sidewalk. She didn't move ahead, and she didn't try to break away. Tremble, and closed eyes as they moved, the paranoia tickling at the nape of her neck, she let him move her. He was bleeding. She'd seen it. He needed a doctor, and he'd go easier if she went.
He'd go easier if she went. She told herself that with each step. She tried to count them, but she couldn't. It was too hard to focus on the numbers. She tried, but she couldn't. So she just focused on steps. She wanted to tell him to go to a doctor, yeah? She wanted to, but that was fucking hypocrisy too.