Chapter twenty-five:
It takes a long while to find the pharmacy. It’s funny, but it’s not, because I walk past it twice before I finally see it. And how could I miss it with its big glass windows and large green sign? My mind is in such a muddle. My hand hurts. I’m hungry too. But mostly, my heart aches that Carrie did this to me.
I know she didn’t mean to. It was an accident. She was confused. I’m certain she apologized at some point too. I’m certain she didn’t scream at me in fear and anger. I still feel bad that I hit her. Made her bruises even worse.
I did that.
Not the stairs.
Not the floor.
Not herself as she tripped. But me.
My fist as it connected with her face.
I feel bad. I am a bad person for doing that.
A man should never hit a woman. Even if she does stab him first.
My hand throbs in pain, reminding me that it’s still there. That the stab wound…no, the defensive wound is still there. But I don’t blame her. I won’t.
I need some painkillers, and I need some bandages and something to clean the stab wound with because I don’t want it to get infected. That would suck. Really suck. I bet the pain would be incredible. Worse than it is now, and right now it hurts a whole lot.
Come to think of it, I feel a little sick. A dizziness has taken over me. The world zooms in and out of focus, and a shiver runs down my spine. I feel hot and cold and everything in between. I push the door to the pharmacy open, and a small bell above rings faintly. It smells of medicine and cleanliness in here, and I like it because medicine means health and cleanliness means no germs. This place is safe for me and my open wound.
Defensive wound,I correct myself. It’s not an open wound, or a scrape or a cut. It’s a defensive wound. I shudder.
I go through the aisles, looking for what I need and mentally crossing them off my list as I put them into the basket that hangs in my uninjured hand. Bandages, gauze, tape, disinfectant, painkillers. I see condoms and decide to get a box while I’m here. I’m thoughtful and considerate like that.
I don’t know if Carrie has any at home. I hope so, because she’s been sleeping with Mr. Fancy Asshole Adam and the thought of her having unprotected sex, of him being inside her beautiful body without a condom, makes me want to throw up.
Literally throw up all over the floor.
“Oh god, I’m so sorry,” I say as someone comes and grabs me by the waist and I bend over and heave again.
I feel weak and shaky. They’re talking to me, but when I try to look at them their face is blurry. My mouth tastes of vomit and bile. Stomach acid, beans, and rank coffee with too much sugar. It’s disgusting. I need to clean my teeth. I need my own toothbrush. I can’t use Carrie’s now. There’s a line to sharing, and that would be it.I’ll get one while I’m here, I think.
“I’m really sorry,” I say again. “Could you show me where the toothbrushes are, please?”
And I am really sorry.
And I am embarrassed.
And Carrie will be embarrassed the next time she has to shop here, because I bet they’ll remember me, because you don’t forget someone who throws up on your floor. And we’ll be the sort of couple that does everything together, so when we come to buy more condoms, or things for Carrie’s periods, they’ll remember us and I’ll have to explain to Carrie why they’re looking at me strangely.
My cheeks flush hot with embarrassment.
“Come and sit,” the voice next to me says, and I’m ushered into a chair.
The chair is made of cold plastic. It digs into my back. I shiver again.
I still feel sick. But I will not throw up anymore, I decide. I just need to pull myself together for the sake of Carrie.
“An ambulance is on the way. Don’t worry, it’s all going to be fine.”
An ambulance?
I’m confused and the place is spinning and I feel hot.
