Rick has already turned away. Both of us are embarrassed by the taint I can’t control. “Sure, kid.”
It’s like a beacon above my head. What used to be a sweet, rich scent of cherries and chocolate is now twisted and bitter, following me around like a giant sign.
Look. There’s something wrong with this one.
Defective.
Fucked up.
Broken.
I can feel his eyes on my back as I reach for my backpack and lug it with me, skirting around the couch to get to my bedroom door and using my back to push it closed.
Breathe.
In. Out.
Again.
I stay pressed against the door for a few minutes, focusing on breathing the way they showed me at the clinic.
They called it a relaxation technique. I call it a coping mechanism.
When the urge to scream has departed, replaced by a lagging exhaustion that fills my bones with lead, I drop the sandwich on my small side table for later and crawl into bed. My room might only be big enough for one person to stand in at a time, but I don’t mind it.
It feels safe. Safer than anything on the other side of that door.
I burrow into my pile of blankets, tossing and yanking them into place until I’m cocooned and reach out to flick on the row of small golden lights that run across my ceiling.
I should change my dressings. But I find that I don’t have the energy to do anything except close my eyes.
Just for a moment, I let myself wish that things were different.
That Rick was the type of father who stepped up when I needed him – who actuallygavea shit. That we lived somewhere that didn’t require a small marathon and a talent for off-grid travel to reach. That the pain radiating through my shoulder and down my body was just a temporary annoyance, instead of a countdown.
I try not to waste any more than a moment on wishes that will never come true.
Not when I have so few moments left.
And not when those thoughts tend to deviate into memories I’d rather not touch. That I’d do anything not to remember.
But the thoughts still invade my mind. They steal my breath, tighten my lungs to the point that my harsh, noisy, rattling breathing fills my microscopic bedroom as I scrunch my eyes shut and fight to sleep.
And then it starts, as it always does. In that strange space between wakefulness and sleep, when I’m not sure what’s real and what’s just a nightmare.
Although these days, they feel more and more like one and the same.
The shaking comes first. I tug on the blankets, push myself into them, close my eyes and try to think about the feel of the soft fur against my cheek, instead of grass against my back or sharp rocks embedding in my skin. Of a heavy weight, pressing down.
Then comes the screaming.
The feel of my nails ripping, breaking, tearing.
Rust in my mouth, filling my nose.
Andthem. Always them.
They’ll follow me into my nightmares, as they always do.
