“You move at a glacial pace,” she says, shaking her head with sympathy. “I know it’s because your wrist is hurt, but you’re just too slow, sweetie. And now you’ve hurt your other hand. As much as I like having you around, I need someone who can actually do the work at a decent rate of speed.”
I press my lips together, willing myself not to cry.
“Please,” I whisper. “I need this job so badly.”
“I’ll tell you what. I’m giving you the next two weeks off. You won’t get paid your salary, but you can still keep your room benefit. I want you to rest and heal, so in two weeks, you can come back good as new and kick ass.”
A tear falls down my cheek, and I stare at Sue, shocked by her offer.
“You’d do that for me?”
Aside from Julian and his family, no one’s ever been this kind to me. I don’t know what to do with it. I don’t know if I can trust it.
“What’s the catch?” I ask her.
“Get better,” she says. “Eat something. In the two weeks I’ve known you, you’ve lost ten pounds. Take care of yourself for a while, get your feet under you, and the job will be waiting for you.”
“I’m so grateful,” I reply, overcome with emotion. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Now, go clean that cut on your palm and rest.”
With a nod, I walk back to my room. It’s not good that I won’t have a salary for two weeks, but at least I can still stay here for free. I borrowed some extra cleaning supplies from my cart when I started the job and did a deep clean of my room. My wrist sang with pain afterward, but I felt better knowing that it was cleaner.
I walk into the bathroom and examine the cut over the sink. It’s deep. It should probably have stitches, but if I’m not willing to go to the hospital for a likely broken wrist, I’m not going for a cut either.
I’ve just started cleaning it up when nausea rolls through me, and I fall to my knees in front of the toilet, throwing up what little food I had in my system. Then I wrap a towel around my hand and climb onto the bed, lying on my side. I stare at my dead phone on the bedside table. I could go over to the pharmacy and probably buy a charger for it, but I don’t have anyone to talk to.
I should eat, but I’m not hungry.
I’m just sad.
Everything hurts—not just my hands, but my heart, my stomach, mysoul.
I’m exhausted from crying every night. After working all day, I come back in here and cry for hours until I fall into a fitful sleep.
Then I get up the next morning and do it all again.
Eating isn’t on my mind, and it’s really not in my budget either.
Something’s wrong.
I’m so sweaty. Out of breath. Exhausted.
So fucking tired.
And I throw up a lot, even though I haven’t had anything to eat in days. I’ve always been the type to toss my cookies when I’m anxious, scared, nervous. And I’ve been all of those things pretty much from the minute I met my father for lunch so many weeks ago now. It doesn’t surprise me that I can’t keep food down, but the other symptoms are worrisome.
My cut hand is killing me, so I walk into the bathroom and remove the towel that I’ve been using to keep it covered.
That doesn’t look good.
There’s puss and redness. A red streak runs up my forearm. Is it infected? Is that why I’m so hot? It’s been a week since I cut myself. It should be healing.
It shouldn’t look like hamburger.
Ugh, just the thought of hamburger has me dry-heaving over the toilet again, and then I fall onto my side on the cool tile and fall asleep.
I’m so cold.Shivering. Teeth chattering.
