I don’t accept money from people who make my skin crawl.
I’ve turned down big offers because being good at what I do doesn’t mean I’m for sale.
I’m the best at this.
Which is why I can’t stay in this bed for another day.
I stare back up at the ceiling fan. The dust is still there, mocking me.
I exhale slowly, letting myself sink into the pillow, the warm fuzz of the meds wrapping around my brain again.
I can do this. I can sleep. I can rest.
I’ll go back to work tomorrow.
Maybe I’ll wear flats.
The horror.
I’m mid-thought, eyes finally heavy, when a thud hits the ceiling above my bed.
My eyes snap open.
Another.
Then another.
The rhythm picks up fast.
They’re running on a treadmill. I know because it feels like they’re in the room with me.
Thud. Thud. Thudthudthud.
“What the actual fuck.”
Someone’s getting a head start on their Olympic training.
“You have got to be kidding me. Shut up!” I yell.
Nothing.
The noise keeps going, louder now. Unbothered by my pain. Unbothered by the fact that I’m lying here, stitched together with prescription drugs.
I miss Mr. Rogers. He shuffled.
I shove a pillow over my head.
It doesn’t help.
Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen.
Still going.
Still pounding.
I check the time.
1:03 a.m.
