“Get up,” I say to him, causing him to look at me again with one eye.
“What?”
“I said get up. Go lie in the bed. I’ll grab you some water, and I’m assuming there is Ibuprofen in this house?”
“I can get it myself,” he says as he goes to stand. He pauses, his legs wobbly beneath him, and within seconds, I watch him start to tip forward, so I rush to him and press my hand to his chest, righting him up.
“Jesus, Keller.” I keep him steady. “You need to fucking lie down.”
“Just give me a second.”
“No,” I yell. “You’ve clearly pushed yourself too much. Now lie down.” I put my arm through his and move him toward the bedroom. This time, he doesn’t put up a fight and follows me.
“Only for a second,” he says.
I move him through the house at a slow pace, and when we get to the bed, I lay him down carefully. And because I can’t ever let anything go, I lean forward and say, “I want it to be noted that not only was I able to catch you but also drag you to the bed. So next time you’re asked to do the trust exercise with me, don’t judge a book by its cover, you anus.”
There.
If I have to take care of him, at least I can tack on a cup of petty with my treatment. Makes it easier.
“Now, tell me where this first aid kit is.”
“Bathroom, under the sink,” he says, his bulky arm draped over his eyes.
I locate the first aid kit and open it up. One side is full of bandages, antiseptic spray, and gauze. The other side is filled with medicine. I pluck out four Ibuprofen for him, then go to the kitchen where I locate some black tea. That’ll have to work for caffeine, and I’ll pump him with water.
When I bring back the Ibuprofen, he’s no longer on the bed. I’m about to yell at him when I hear him from the bathroom . . . throwing up.
Oh God.
“Uh, you okay?” I ask him, unsure of what to do.
He just groans.
I set the medicine and drink on the nightstand, then go into the bathroom where his arms are draped over the toilet, his shoulders slumped. Feeble, that’s how I’d describe him right now, as if he just ran a marathon for three days straight and is now feeling the effects of it.
I squat next to him and place my hand on his back, gently rubbing it, the puckered scars bumpy under my palm. “Are you done?” I ask.
“Yeah,” he murmurs.
“Okay, stay there.” I go to the sink and pick up his toothbrush. I wet it and line it with toothpaste, then bring it over to him. He’s now leaning against the wall, his eyes closed, his posture sunken. That’s when I notice a few new scars on his chest. They’re small and almost look like burn marks. Scars I’ve never seen before. Scars I don’t think were there before.
No, I know for a fact they weren’t there before. I’ve licked every inch of this man’s body, and he didn’t have those before.
Where did they come from?
What has he been doing?
And why is he so dehydrated?
I grip his cheek and say, “Open your mouth.” He doesn’t have enough strength to fight me, so he opens his mouth, and I brush his teeth for him. “Spit in the toilet,” I say, helping him lean forward.
Once I finish up, I rinse his toothbrush, then I help him up from the ground, carrying his body weight.
“I’m . . . sorry,” he says, his voice in an immense amount of pain.
“It’s fine,” I answer just as I help him back into bed. “I need you to take this medicine and drink some of this tea, it will help the medicine be more effective.”
