I’m not sure how much time passes before he’s shaking my shoulder again, but it must’ve only been a few moments, long enough for me to let out a soft snore.
He’s holding up the Gatorade bottle I chugged earlier, as if it’s evidence of a murder scene. “Who had access to your Gatorade? You bring some chick into your room lately?”
“Rev,” I mumble.
His silence is loud—so much so, it’s successful in drawing my attention.
“There’s white residue at the bottom of your Gatorade,” he tells me, his tone grave. “How many did you drink today?”
“Three.”
His hand fists the bottle roughly, the plastic crinkling loudly from the force.
“Fuck, dude.Fuck!” he whisper-shouts. “Why the fuck was she in your room?”
I sigh and thump my head back against the wall. Somewhere beneath all the exhaustion weighing down my bones, there’s anger churning beneath. It’s just enough to keep my eyes open for longer than ten seconds at a time.
“She was getting hypo—hypo… therma.” I groan. “Not like we can jush kill her, so ’ad to warm ’er up.”
I peek at Rogue to find him staring at me incredulously.
“You fuck her?”
“Fuck no,” I spit. “Didn’t even touch ’er tits. She snuck out on me before I woke up.”
Rogue releases a heavy, frustrated sigh and runs a palm over his closely shaved hair roughly. “She fucking drugged you. I knew this last prank was too far, man. She always bites back—every fucking time. Remember last time, when she put fucking red dye in our goddamnbody wash?Our skin was stained red for fucking days, bro.Or the time before that, when she put sugar water in your gas tank? You had to get a whole new car.”
I nod along, growing annoyed with the reminders of only a few ways Reverie’s retaliated over the past severalyears.
“Dude. Weren't their seals broken? How did you not notice that?”
I scrunch my brows. I think I remember hearing them crack, but maybe I didn’t—I don't fucking know.
I made the mistake of opening that picture this morning and succumbing to a moment of weakness thatstillhasn’t released me. It distracted me all goddamn day, throughout both of my classes and up to this very fucking second.
I said I’d delete the picture, but I haven’t.
Every time I opened it, I could only stare at it, my thumb hovering over the trash can button yet never following through with clicking it.
Eventually, I went to open it again for the millionth time to delete it, and it was my goddamn screen saver.
When I did that, I don't even fucking know, but I haven't changed it, either.
My never-ending war with myself kept me thoroughly distracted. I barely remember drinking the first Gatorade, let alone the next two.
I clench my fists, though I release them just as quickly, too weak to hold on. It’s my own fault for bringing her into my room. Not for one second did I think I wouldn’t wake up when she did.
Fuuuuck.
I’ve never slept well—not since I was eight years old. I figured I’d sleep even worse with a snake coiled at my side. I was convinced I’d show up to this meet tired as hell, but at least without her untimely death on my hands.
Mission fucking accomplished, but only because the goddamn bitch drugged me.
Athletes and drugs have nevernotexploded in the media, and if officials think I’m doped up on national television, I can kiss the Olympics goodbye. They take this shit seriously. It doesn’t matter that they’ll drug test me and find my shit clean, or if I tell them the stress and pressure got to my head and that I stupidly mistook my sleep meds for a simple pain reliever. If I try to compete and make an embarrassment of myself, not only will I not qualify anyway, my reputation will never be the same, and this shit will forever stain my career.
A tendril of blackness swirls throughout my insides and licks every inch of me until I’m saturated in it.
One corner of my mouth lifts, a lazy chuckle shaking my shoulders.
