Mayhem is a speck of a place nestled in a valley of the Appalachian Mountains. Generations ago, the cozy community was ideal for raising a family. Now, it’s a fractured suburb, where half is a decomposed residential carcass, with the other a neon circus. And presiding over the whole thing is a gang of psychopaths.
To me, it’s paradise.
What does this say about my own mental state?
Who the hell knows?
Nor do I care. But here I am, trying desperately to drag my best friend into this crazy environment. Because I believe she’ll be happy here, where she’ll be free from the confines of conventional society.
Once I’m home, I take a quick shower, then grab my phone out of my bag on the way to the kitchen. I do one last BG check because diabetes never rests. It never takes a break. It never has a day off.
Not even on Christmas.
I use two different insulins each day, fast and slow acting. One is for meals. The second I take before bed and lasts for twenty-four hours. The fun just never ends. After filling a glass of water and setting myself up with a fifteen-calorie snack, I head upstairs to my bedroom. The house is empty and lonely without furniture. I need to do severe damage to my credit card tomorrow because it’s time to make this place home.
It also means I need to get busy unpacking. Here I am making grand declarations about being back where I belong. Meanwhile, I have done nothing to settle in, almost as if I still have one foot out the door. If I’m talking the talk, I need to walk the walk. And the first step starts in the morning.
When I get to my bedroom, I set the water and a sliced apple on the bedside table before pulling out my slow-acting insulin from its drawer. I learned after injecting the wrong medication that a good rule of thumb is not to store the two insulins in the same place. An accidental misdosage of eight units of fast insulin forced me to eat an ungodly amount of carbs and monitor myself for four hours to ensure I didn’t have a hypoglycemic seizure.
I never want to ride that roller coaster again.
After a jab to the stomach, I scroll through my social media accounts while I absently eat the apple. It’s a struggle not to read my messages to see Jester’s reply after my last text to him. I hold out for a good ten minutes. But, like the cat who died from curiosity, I eventually peek.
Jester: Text me when ur home so I know ur safe
Why is my heart slamming against my sternum? Because he’s charming, that’s why. Damn him. Even as I swear I’m not going to answer his stupid text, here I am, fingers moving over the keyboard.
Me: I’m home.
I toss the phone on the bed and go brush my teeth. When I return to my room, I note he didn’t answer. Not that I expected him to. Jester has a life. He’s not my boyfriend (thank God). I don’t even like the man.
So why, as I drift off to sleep, am I a wee bit disappointed he didn’t text back?
Because I’m a glutton for punishment.
And for other reasons I don’t care to analyze.
We have unresolved issues, and one day we’re going to have to sort out them if I’m ever going to have closure. But again, I’m not torturing myself tonight by dwelling on this. It’s been a long day and an even longer night. And damn him for always worming himself into my mind.
10
Faith
Who the hell is in my house?
Let me rephrase this.
At two o’clock in the morning, only I should be in my house.
Now look, I’m not one of those too-stupid-to-live types who’s going to creep out of the bedroom calling out, “Who’s there?” I’ve watched enough movies. It never ends well when the lone woman investigates strange noises. Nor do I own a gun, as I should now that I’m back in Mayhem. I do, however, keep a trusty Louisville Slugger by the head of the bed. It still doesn’t mean I’m going to bust out of my room swinging like I’m some badass Final Girl. But if whoever is rooting around down there decides to come upstairs, they won’t take me off guard, and I won’t be completely defenseless.
Scared shitless, yes, absolutely. To the point where I can’t string two whole coherent thoughts together, and my limbs are shaking as I fumble for the bat and my cell phone. Christ, I can practically taste the adrenaline racing through me, which isn’t good because it also means my blood sugar must be rising. For a non-diabetic person, it’s not a big deal. As usual, for me, it’s another layer of messy.
I fight a futile battle to remain calm and stay on the mattress to keep the person (or people) violating my home from hearing me move around on these old, squeaky floorboards. With my heart slamming against my sternum and my fingers trembling, I grab my phone and set it to silent because I’m sure my elevated BG will eventually set off the CGM alarm.
Fear has my hands shaking, and it takes me two tries to dial for help. The operator’s voice is an angel’s song to my terrified ears. “9-1-1. What’s your emergency?”
“There’s someone in my house,” I rasp quickly and quietly.
