The belt comes down, and I feel every stripe of fire across my back, white-hot pain that steals my breath. And somewhere in the distance I hear Ivan screaming my name, screaming for me to help him, but I can't move, can't reach him—
I jerk awake, gasping, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat, in my temples, behind my eyes.
I'm alone. I'm safe.
You're not safe. You're never safe.
I don't try to go back to sleep. I know better. I sit in the chair by the window and watch the sun come up, counting the hours until I can go to work and have something to do with my hands, something to occupy my mind.
But there is no work today. It's Saturday. Mick's is closed.
The day stretches out endlessly in front of me. Without Mick's shop, without Ivan, without any structure, I have nothing but time and the fucking voices in my head that won't shut up.
By late afternoon, I'm pacing the room like a caged animal, my hands shaking, my breath coming too fast. I can't call Ivan. He's still at work, or at the party being there for those kids, the way someone should have been there for us.
Finally, it's time to walk to Betty's for my shift, and I'm desperate for the distraction. The work helps. It always helps. I lose myself in the rhythm of scrubbing and rinsing and stacking.
Ivan calls during my break.
"Hey, how's the party going?" I ask.
"It was amazing. The girls had the best time. Diana cried when she saw the cake. The good kind of crying with happy tears. And Destiny hit the piñata so hard candy went everywhere. The party was a big hit."
"That sounds perfect. I'm really glad it went well."
"How are you doing?" he asks. "How's work tonight?"
"Busy. Which is good. It keeps me out of my head."
"You sound tired again. Even more tired than yesterday. Sure, you're okay?"
"I'm fine. Just counting down the days until I see you again. I can make it a few more days."
"Yeah, just remember, blue balls won't kill you," he jokes.
I laugh, knowing he's trying to cheer me up.
"Whatever's going on in your head right now, whatever the voices are telling you, remember that you're not alone and I'll be there soon."
"I know," I manage. "I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"
I want to tell him everything. That the nightmares that won't stop and the cravings are getting worse by the hour. But I can't.
"Okay," he says. "Get some rest tonight. Please try to sleep."
"I will. Goodnight, Ivan."
I hang up and stand in the alley for a long moment. Then I go back inside and finish my shift on autopilot. By the time I get back to the motel, it's almost eleven. I'm exhausted, completely wrung out. I should be tired enough to sleep without dreaming.
I'm not.
I lie in bed for an hour after taking a long, hot shower, staring at the ceiling as always. The craving for a drink builds in my chest like pressure, like something alive clawing at my ribs, whispering promises.
You don't have a drinking problem. Not really. You can try one drink to prove to yourself you can stop. Just one drink to help you sleep.
I think about the pills in the bathroom cabinet. I haven't touched them in weeks, haven't even looked at them, but I know they're there. I can feel them like a heartbeat, like a pulse.
You could make it all stop. The nightmares, the voices. You just need to be able to sleep. Ivan won't know.
