Oh yeah, I think this is going to be a lot of fun.
PART TWO
The Present
CHAPTER 8
Octavian
Present Day
“Hold on, Floyd.”
I glance over my shoulder as the incessant tapping at the door continues despite my clipped response to it.
Reason number 7,384 why I’m an asshole.
It’s not his fault that it’s the only way for him to get my attention. Just like it’s not his fault that he probably can’t hear shit over Lou Reed blasting through my speakers, let alone me snapping at him from inside the bathroom.
He doesn’t deserve this kind of treatment, especially from me, and as soon as I get myself cleaned up, I’ll make it up to him. Granted, that’s only if I don’t bleed out over the sink first.
I went too deep this time.
That was one of the worst nightmares I’ve had in a long time and I was so upset when I woke up that I didn’t wait until I was fully functional before I grabbed my scalpel. Just snatched it from the medicine cabinet and went straight for the inside of myright thigh. I didn’t even put my fucking glasses on and that was my second mistake of the morning.
Everything was still blurry from sleep, my eyes were way out of focus without my specs, and my hands were still shaking from that goddamn dream. My depth perception was off and before I knew what was happening, I nearly stabbed myself in my femoral artery. A few inches higher and I might have.
Instead, I took a two inch long and one inch deep chunk out of my thigh like I was carving a fucking pumpkin and now I have to stitch myself up over my bathroom counter while my racket and balls sit inside the sink.
Not exactly the start to my day I was hoping for.
Then again, I’m neverhopefulper se, just skeptically optimistic at best.
Also known as anextremely pessimistic realist with social anxiety and self sabotaging tendencies driven by obsessive compulsive disorder.
That’s what my last shrink said, anyway.
He nailed it if you ask me.
With a grimace, I hook the surgical needle through my skin, pulling the last stitch closed tightly before tying it off to call it good. I reach for the gauze and medical tape, neatly covering the adorable little wound so it doesn’t rub on the inside of my jeans once I’m dressed. Which I manage to do relatively easily after cleaning up all my blood on the floor and counter.
Only three stitches this time, and not too shabby for an amateur.
I’m thinking this isn’t something to be proud of but it’s about all I’ve got, so I’ll take it.
The tapping at the door stops for a few moments as I brush my teeth and pause, waiting for the scratching to start.
Then it does.
It never fails. Floyd taps against the door until I come out and if that doesn’t work, he waits a few seconds to give me a chance to stop him before he starts scratching. But only on mornings like this.
If I have a good night, one nightmare free and full of as much sleep as my body allows, we get up together at a much calmer pace. We have breakfast while listening to music, go for a walk around the block a few times, then Floyd comes back to the loft before I open the store.
When I have a bad night? Polar opposite.
I thrash around so much I end up waking both of us up, and I also scare the fuck out of Floyd when I jump or fall out of bed. Usually the latter before racing to the bathroom. Then he waits and worries outside the door while I handle the feelings I’ve never been able to deal with appropriately.
It cuts into our normal routine time and means we rush through parts of it and on days like today where I almost die accidentally, it’s even more so.
