Page 113 of The Addict

He is that dizzy feeling during a buzz. He’s the cruelty I crave.

Damian looked exhausted. “Then stop messing around with him. He is a terrible influence on you. I’m fed up with it, Noah.”

So am I.

“I’m sorry, but can we talk about this later?” I questioned weakly, feeling my legs begin to quake. I strengthened my grip on the side of the sink counter. “I’m tired, and I still don’t feel well.”

Damian said nothing for a moment but then nodded. “Fine. Tomorrow. Get some sleep, Noah.”

I almost laughed. As if.

Before Damian walked out of the room, I asked one last thing.

“Where is David?”

Damian gave me a curious look. I swallowed uneasily, knowing that my older brother was using his keen observational skills to try and reveal the reason for my asking. I made an effort to keep my face straight.

“Gone. He is not due back from work for another two days.”

I nodded, turning away. “That’s right. I remember now.”

“Are you sure,” Damian began softly, his face concerned. He knew that there was something wrong and wanted to help. “That something isn’t bugging you, Noah?”

Tell him.

Don’t tell him.

Tell him.

“No, I’m sure.” I smiled weakly.

Damian granted me one last swift nod before leaving. “Then goodnight.”

I stood there in the silence I had been waiting for, feeling lonelier than ever. I wanted nothing more than to curl up under Damian’s strong arm and just let my sadness out—to cry harder than I ever had. But my body wouldn’t let me do it. I didn’t feel like I deserved the way my brother cared for me, and honestly, I didn’t expect any help or condolences. Damian was busy, always on the go, chasing his own dreams. He didn’t need to be burdened with my petty disasters. There was nothing he could do anyway. I had to continue reminding myself that I had been here before. I’d lived this pain before.

I was consumed with self-loathing, fully aware that it was getting me nowhere, but I didn’t care anymore. I wasn’t human.

I was a disgusting machine.

Built for sex. Designed for misery.

My legs were dragging heavy slabs of metal behind me, each step to the cabinet on the far side of the bathroom feeling like an uphill battle. The numbness in my body had kicked in, but it wasn’t quite doing the trick. Instead, I was left with little blotches of pain, some sharper and more intense than others. I cringed with every step, even lifting my foot was a monumental task.

I grasped the bottle of sleeping pills in my palm, reading the warnings on the back as if they mattered. I took four, ignoring the chemical threats about what could happen to my body. Then, I reached into the tub and yanked the ruined clothes out, tossing them into the hamper outside of the bathroom door. As I looked around my room, it dawned on me what was missing.

The wreckage.

I knew I had put up a fight, but where was the jostled furniture? Where was the blood that I was sure had leaked onto the floor, the wall even, from my wounds? It felt surreal, like I was watching myself enter the room from above. Not my body. Not where it happened.

I glanced around, searching for something that felt normal. To my horror, everything felt off; even my bed was freshly made, the sheets neatly creased as if they hadn’t been disturbed in months. The floors were spotless, and the familiar wall I had been shoved against looked pristine. I blinked, my breath hitching in my throat, struggling to process the scene around me.

I was on the verge of a panic attack, fully aware that what happened was real. But a paranoid thought crept in—could it be that I had imagined it all?

And then I saw it.

My cell phone. On the table by my bed.

It was lit up in the darkness. I received a text message.