Rough Around the Edges

by Ranae Rose

  “I’ll be careful. Your place isn’t too far from here, is it?”

  “It’s about a ten minute drive. I like coming here because it’s close.”

  “Just tell me where to go.”

  “Take a right when you leave the parking lot.” He closed his eyes, shutting out the glare of streetlights for a few brief seconds. Normally, their illumination wasn’t overwhelming. But he was anything but normal as he rode in the passenger seat, mentally mapping the route to his apartment. He’d been to the diner so many times he knew every street, every turn. He could handle giving her directions, at least. It was a pitiful contribution, and one he had to focus his every thought on in order to carry out.

  She’d barely made it out of the parking lot when a loud grinding sound rent the air as she switched gears while increasing speed. “Sorry,” she breathed. “It’s okay – I’ve got it now.”

  She sounded a little pissed at herself. He could relate to that. And he couldn’t be mad at her for the small mistake when she was doing him a favor, when he’d been fucking up ever since he’d stepped out of the ring that night. Her driving was a little rough, but that was nothing.

  The ten minute trip to his apartment seemed to take three times that, at least. He forced himself to keep his eyes open. Sometimes, they were so dry it hurt. Other times, they watered from the pain. “Turn here. It’s the building on the left.”

  She slowed in front of the four-story brick apartment building and pulled into one of the spaces, parking slowly – so slowly he wanted to jump out and run inside, where he could hurt without being on display. He would’ve fallen flat on his face though, and besides, he still had to make sure she got home – he could call a cab and give her some cash for the fare. It was the least he could do.

  They both stepped out of the car – miracle of miracles, he managed to stay steady on his feet – and she pressed his keys back into his hand.

  “Which apartment is yours?”

  He locked the car with the push of a button. “Top floor, farthest to the left.”

  Four flights of stairs stretched between the street and his apartment door. Normally, it didn’t seem like much to climb, but now…

  “Is it all right if I come inside? I’ll have to call a cab.”

  “Of course.” It wasn’t like he’d leave her out on the street. But inside…

  He’d never taken a cab in Baltimore. Suddenly, he wished he had, wished he was familiar with the city’s cab companies so he could be sure to call the fastest one. Any other time, he would’ve loved the idea of her inside his apartment. As he stood steeling himself for the climb up the stairs, it seemed like her presence there would be a death-blow to what was left of his pride.

  They climbed the steps in silence.

  He made it to the top without stumbling, tripping or puking – a pretty fucking huge accomplishment.

  He managed to unlock his unit, 401, and then to lock the deadbolt again after they both made it through the door.

  Inside, the place was practically bare. Just an open dinette kitchen and living room, plus the closed doors that led to the bedroom and bathroom. A couch and a small table with chairs were the only visible furniture. Aware that she had to be watching him because there was nothing else to look at, he made his way to the kitchen and opened the cabinet above the sink.

  The rattle of the pill bottle in his hand was a sound of pure relief. Or at least, he hoped so. God, he fucking hoped so as he pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it at the sink’s faucet and then struggled with the bottle’s childproof cap.

  When he had two pills in hand, he took them immediately, washing them down with a mouthful of tap water.

  He didn’t even feel the tumbler slip out of his hand. One minute his drinking was the only noise, and then the sound of shattering glass was coming from somewhere around his feet.

  When he looked down, everything was silver. Pieces of broken glass and lights that weren’t really there – he could hardly tell the difference. “Damn.”

  Ally rushed into the kitchen before he could so much as blink. “Let me get that. Do you have a dustpan?”

  Just hearing and seeing her move so quickly made him dizzy. He gripped the counter for support. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll clean it up later.”

  She moved closer to him, hovering at the edge of the mess that had been his drinking glass. “Why don’t you go sit down on the couch? I’ve got this.”

  A part of him wanted nothing more than to sink down onto the couch. That part won out after a few dizzying moments that threatened to bring him to his knees. Anything would be better than collapsing in front of Ally in a pile of broken glass – even letting her sweep it up.

  She was supposed to be his date, not a maid. He wasn’t sure if he said it out loud or only thought it as he headed to the couch. He collapsed onto it, letting his head tip way back against the cushion.

  Surrendering his last shred of dignity had never felt so good. The pain in his head didn’t subside, but all the tension went out of his limbs and spine, leaving him incapable of any major movement. The deceptively soft sounds of glass being swept up came from the kitchen, the soundtrack to his shame as he surrendered to the small comfort of the blackness beneath his eyelids, letting them shield him from sight, which had become a burden.

  After a while, Ally called out from the kitchen. She was talking to him, that much was obvious, but it was impossible to make out what she was saying; her words jumbled together and blurred, mostly indistinguishable. He caught the word ‘glass’, though. Was she pissed at having to clean up after him, after all?

  The thought troubled him, but there was no way to show that he cared. He tried to thank her, but his voice was nowhere to be found.

  Later. He’d thank her later. At the moment, conversation was only a dream, not a real possibility. There was only the darkness behind his eyelids and the pain inside his skull.

  * * * * *

  He didn’t wake up. Not really. What he did felt more like struggling through dark water, breaking the surface only to find that the air above was still cold and inhospitable. He’d never been asleep, only lost inside the void his mind became when the physical agony went beyond the icepick-through-the-skull level of pain and became … just too much.

  There was a difference, though. Silver lights still clouded his vision, and his head still hurt, but there was a small sense of pleasure that accompanied the pain. Ally was holding his hand. She sat beside him on the couch and her fingers were entwined with his.

  How long had he been ignoring her? Obviously not very long if her cab hadn’t even arrived yet.

  “Sorry. I didn’t know – I mean, I can’t predict when this is going to happen.” He motioned toward his head, hating the way his words came out sounding slightly slurred.

  “Don’t worry about it. Like I said, my aunt gets migraines – I know they’re unpredictable and can be intense.” She met his gaze and kept her fingers tangled with his.

  There was no point in pulling away, not after everything she’d witnessed already. Besides, he didn’t want to. Her touch felt so good he was almost ashamed of how much he liked it. He nodded and immediately regretted it as the pain in his head flared, defying him to move again.

  “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to use your restroom if that’s okay.” She let go of his hand and stood.

  His head was too heavy and the memory of the pain caused by simply nodding was too fresh for him to watch her walk across the living room.

  When the sound of the bathroom door being closed came, he mustered up the last of his dwindling supply of willpower and rose – slowly, painfully and barely. For at least thirty seconds, he stood leaning heavily on the couch, trying to get enough of a grasp on his equilibrium to walk.

  Eventually, he succeeded. His throat burned as he crossed the living room, gaze fixed on the sink. He’d meant to fill and drink another glass of water after taking his pills, but then he’d dropped the tumbler and everythin
g had gone to shit. He’d get a drink while Ally was in the bathroom. He just—

  The world exploded in pain and light, both stronger than any of the agony he’d experienced yet that night. Darkness warred with the multi-colored spots dancing in front of his eyes, threatening to invade his vision and plunge him into unconsciousness. He felt the pull of it and the way his body wanted to give in, but pure fury kept him alert. Sort of.

  Literally blinded by the light, he reached out. His fingertips encountered the smooth wood-paneled side of the island countertop that divided the kitchen area from the living area. What the fuck? He was on the floor beside it, and he didn’t even remember falling.

  Rage boiled inside him, heating his face. Or maybe that was blood streaming down. Yeah. “Fuck!” That was what it was. It dripped down onto the linoleum, dotting the floor with redness that quickly began to puddle.

  He was living in the past, always a few moments behind. He did things – things like dropping glasses and falling and hurting himself – and he didn’t even realize until it was over, until it was too late. That was the most infuriating thing of all, the thing about himself – and there were a lot of things – that he hated the most.

  Sometimes his mind failed like a train jumping off its tracks, leaving him disconnected with the things that were going on around him and even happening to him, with the timeline that the rest of the world was living on. He was a fucking train wreck.

  Ally came out of the bathroom and arrived on the scene of his latest disaster at the worst possible moment, before he’d had a chance to even try to stand. The sound of her footsteps echoed through his skull, amplifying the ache inside, and he was hyper-aware of the fact that he wasn’t just sitting on the floor but slumping, defeat bending his spine, evident in every last goddamn vertebra.

  “You’re bleeding.” He didn’t realize she’d crouched beside him until she spoke and her breath rushed against his ear.

  He was doing it again – living in the past, a few moments behind her, behind everyone.

  “You need to sit back down.”

  She gripped him by the arm, her two-handed hold firm around his bicep. She actually pulled him to his feet, more or less – he put as much effort into standing as he could, but there was no denying that she steadied him.

  He swore as she guided him toward the couch. What did it matter? The night was already shit, and if he hadn’t scared her off by yelling ‘fuck’ loud enough that it had probably been heard on all four floors, what was a little more swearing?

  When the edge of the couch bumped his knee he sank down onto it. This time, he wouldn’t drift off or become lost inside his own head. He’d stay awake for every miserable moment that passed until she left.

  “Wait right here,” she said, “I’m going to get a towel.”

  It was a surprise when she actually returned with one less than a minute later. It was one of the hand towels from the bathroom closet – it was lucky that he’d even had a clean one in there.

  “Here.” She held the towel aloft. “For your head. If you’ll just move your hand…”

  He’d been pressing his palm over the wound by his temple in an effort to keep from staining the carpet and couch with blood.

  The stuff welled out and began to stream down his face as soon as he removed his hand.

  Ally pressed the towel against his head, stanching the flow.

  He was still as she lifted and then quickly replaced it. “I’m no expert, but you might want to think about stiches.”

  “No. No, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Are you sure? I could drive you. You have to be in so much pain.”

  “I’m sure. I’ve got butterfly bandages in the medicine cabinet.” There had to be at least a couple left.

  “If you can hold the towel against your head, I’ll go look for those butterfly bandages.”

  He raised a hand, negotiating her soft skin and the cheap towel’s rough cotton weave. When he had a good hold on it, she let go.

  “Let me see that towel.” She was back before he knew it, taking the towel and taking over, wetting it with water from the kitchen sink and pressing it to his head again, washing the blood away.

  “All done,” she said after pressing the bandage in place.

  He could feel it holding his parted skin together, and blood was no longer tricking past his hairline and down his face. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” She pursed her lips as she looked at him, her gaze drifting back and forth between the bandage and the kitchen, as if she were wondering whether another trip there would demolish her handiwork. “Was there something you wanted from the kitchen?”

  “A glass of water.” It seemed like a stupid thing to admit now, after all the trouble it had caused.

  “I’ll get it for you.”

  She swept out of the room. The only hurry she seemed to be in was a hurry to help him. Had she called a cab? No, it would’ve arrived already, and she would’ve said something about it.

  He accepted the glass she brought him, his fingers brushing hers, and drank it all.

  “More?” she asked.

  “No.”

  She took the glass back to the kitchen.

  Just like he hadn’t been able to stop her from helping him, he couldn’t stop his eyes from closing, or exhaustion from consuming him, shielding him from whatever unbearably nice thing she’d do next.

  * * * * *

  When he opened his eyes, it was only to find himself inside another dream. He was on the couch, not his bed, which wasn’t really that weird, but Ally was beside him, and that sure as hell was. She was slumped against the cushions and her fingers were curled inside the shelter of his. He didn’t pull his hand away, but raised his other one and raked it over his skull, through his hair. He was hot from sleeping in his jacket, his hair was damp with sweat and—

  Fuck. His fingertips hit a speed bump in the form of a bandage, right above his temple. A twinge of pain flared where he’d touched the bandage, and he knew he was awake. Not because of the pain – he dreamed about pain all the time – but because of the sense of reality that had settled deep into his bones, reminding him of what had happened the night before.

  He dared to look at Ally again and quickly became caught up in studying the splay of her dark locks against the couch cushions, the shell of her exposed ear and the look of thoughtless peace she wore when she slept, so unlike the expressions of worry and determination he’d glimpsed on her face the night before.

  Slowly, he withdrew his fingers from her grasp.

  She’d held his hand all night, had slept beside him. For a moment, panic gripped him by the throat like an angry dog, threatening to shake him until every last bit of calm left him. He’d fucked everything up, and in that moment, he was even more aware of that fact than he’d been the night before, when it had all been happening.

  The panic was short-lived and quickly gave way to a sense of resignation. What was done was done. He could at least make her breakfast. It was a small thing, but it was something he could do for her.

  Feeling half sick with sweat and heat, he peeled off his jacket, pulled his shirt over his head and threw that aside, too. Normally, the apartment’s air felt stuffy, but compared to the sauna his clothing had become, it was heaven against his bare skin.

  There was a carton of eggs in the fridge, plus some bacon, if he remembered correctly. He pulled two frying pans out of the drawer beneath the stove, careful not to bang them against anything. After smearing the inside of each pan with butter, he turned one of the front burners on, got out the bacon, set the eggs aside on the counter and started cooking.

  He’d never thought of raw bacon as having much of a smell before, but as he laid down strip after strip, filling the pan, the odor of it rose up to meet him, and it wasn’t like the smell of cooked bacon.

  The pain in his head was gone. In its place was a different sensation – not pain but not pleasure, just a strange feeling that reminded him of where he’
d hurt the night before. He’d thought he was off the hook – that feeling usually meant he was.

  Not this morning. Throwing down the package of bacon, he turned on his heel and sprinted for the bathroom, pulling the door shut as quickly as he could before heaving his stomach’s entire contents into the toilet.

  It was mostly water and bile. The chicken, waffles and coffee he’d consumed the night before had already been digested, thank God. If he’d had to puke all that up, he would’ve been stuck heaving in the bathroom for an eternity and probably would’ve woken Ally up.

  He rose, straining for any sound of her stirring, of her waking up and wondering why the hell she’d stayed.

  He rinsed the bitter bile from his mouth before it could burn a hole in his tongue and used four capfuls of mouthwash before exiting the bathroom.

  He was back at the stove before the bacon began to sizzle. Ally would never know.

  She woke up a couple minutes later. Her timing left him feeling lucky as he turned over strips of bacon in the pan. Now that it was cooked and he’d puked his guts out, the smell wasn’t repulsive anymore. “Morning,” he called as her footsteps sounded on the carpet and then the linoleum, the only sound besides the sizzling bacon. “I didn’t want to wake you up. I tried to keep the noise down.”

  He finally understood the meaning of the expression ‘pins and needles’ as he stood there with a fork in hand, mindlessly prodding the bacon as he waited for her to say something – anything.

  Chapter 7

  “It was the smell that woke me up.”

  She didn’t sound mad. She didn’t sound anything, really, other than tired. Suspended in uncertainty, he continued jabbing at the bacon. He was practically stabbing it now, poking the crisped meat full of tiny holes. “How do you like your eggs?”

  “Sunny side up.”

  She hadn’t left yet – that was something. In fact, she’d come close and was practically standing by his side.

  One more step and she was there, her arm almost brushing his. “How’s your head?”