September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series

by A. R. Rivera

  “You can’t ignore me forever. I won’t let you.”

  I want to argue with her or punch her in her stupid pointy face, but that would mean acknowledging her.

  Along the blank wall, I imagine Doctor Williams is sitting in her armed chair in the corner opposite Avery’s. I try to hear the soothing ocean sounds that filled her office at each appointment and think of how—if she were really here—the two would stare at each other. Avery, all bird-like and wild. Doctor Williams, mature, patient, and clueless as ever.

  She eases back into her seat like she used to in the early sessions and slides her glasses up the bridge of her nose. “Violence is never the answer, girls.”

  54

  —Angel

  From my plastic chair, I pretend not to watch Avery walking in circles around the common room and rolling her eyes at the conversations some of the other patients are having.

  Avery. Bane of my existence. Her name makes my face hot. She seems so sure of herself as she strolls around, eyeing everyone but me. Does she even care that I am the one everyone sees—the one with the body?

  My shrink says that she has no more power than what I give to her. I control myself, not her.

  They changed my meds, I think, because I’ve leveled out. I’ve had a whole week of continuity, where I can think through the haze. I can even make Avery keep her mouth shut for a few hours at a stretch. Sometimes. Even with the clarity, though, I still feel like the second-cousin to a drooling monkey. My haze is non-existent the inside, but on the outside, my reactions are delayed. I stumble around like a drunk after they dose me.

  I wonder if she feels the mental clarity and the sluggishness like I do as the plastic spoon I’m holding dribbles pudding down my shirt. My hands feel so alien, I’m not sure it’s actually me holding the spoon. I let the little cup of brown goo fall onto the table and leave the blob of chocolate to dribble down my chest. I was just going to puke it up later anyway.

  I’m filthy. A useless invalid. This isn’t living!

  Avery takes a seat in a far corner of the cafeteria. When her hands perch over her growling stomach, I find encouragement. Keeping a determined gaze on her, she turns to meets my stare. It’s a risk, but I’m feeling lucky.

  I can’t actually talk to her without anyone noticing, but speak the threat with my eyes: I am going to kill you.

  55

  —Angel

  A nurse had an orderly escort me from the common room back to mine. I’m too weak to pretend to eat and puke it up later. I feel too sick to move.

  The nurse is demanding I eat a Styrofoam bowl of thin applesauce. That’s how I know all the food has drugs in it. They don’t let you refuse anything that has meds in it. That and every food item they bring me has a bitter tang.

  “Temperature’s normal,” the nurse says, as she examines the thermometer she’s just taken from under my tongue. Her eyes shift to me. “You’ve lost fifteen pounds during the three weeks you were gone and another four since you’ve been back. If you don’t start eating and keeping the food down, they’ll put in a feeding tube.”

  I don’t respond, but take a spoonful of applesauce because it is what I’m supposed to do.

  Avery’s pacing in the far corner with her arms crossed over her stomach. “Ha! I told you. It’s not going to work.”

  “Can I go to sleep?” I ask the nurse, after a few bites. “I’m sure I’ll feel better in the morning.”

  “After you finish that applesauce.” She and an orderly wait until the bowl is empty and I can barely hold back the tears until they leave.

  Avery’s hands are crumpled into fists at her sides.

  I turn to face the wall.

  “Angel,” she whispers my name. “I never wanted to hurt you, I swear.”

  A hot feeling passes over me and my stomach contracts. My throat widens. I swallow down the applesauce that’s trying to come back up.

  “Am I such a bad person? Have I taken so much . . .” her breath sounds shaky. “You keep taking from me, when all I have is what you gave me. I had nobody. My mom didn’t give a shit about me. No dad, no family. No other friends, Angel. Just you.

  “I know it was a mistake. Okay, a big mistake, but why does this thing with Jake have to hang over us?”

  I want to scream at the mention of his name, but hold my tongue.

  “I was only trying to have my own life. Why does that make me a bad person?”

  The shuffle of footsteps pacing the floor fills the silences in her monologue.

  “Seriously, I know I’ve said some terrible things, but so have you. What makes us so different? You’re the good one, I’m the bad one. Boo-hoo. I was not the one with a boyfriend. You were. And yes, I was sleeping with Troy. Because he paid attention to me.”

  My fists clench. I feel the pecking at my throat that makes me want to scream.

  “I was only with Jake when you couldn’t be. Not because I wanted to be. And he never saw me. He only ever held you. I was just . . . a placeholder. Your dirty secret. And you hate me for that? For being what you made me?”

  There’s a long stretch of silence.

  “You keep asking why I did it . . .”

  My ears perk up at that. The last time I spoke to her, I asked her why she hurt him, why she wanted to take him away from me, and she lied. She said she didn’t. I cut her off then and there, because I know that no one ever made Avery do anything she didn’t want to.

  “I don’t have a reason that’s going to satisfy you, but I will say—I didn’t know it at the time—but I guess I was jealous. I hated what was happening to us. You were getting everything you wanted and I . . . hated that you left me for him. I was lonely. But I still tried to give you what you wanted.”

  She waits. “It doesn’t make sense, I know. But that’s . . . whatever.”

  I hear a shuffling sound, the creak of the single chair in the corner. “Do you remember kindergarten? Our teacher, Mrs. Schilling, was nice. She used to have those anti-smoking posters on the walls. All bright colors and the people in them were set in groups of good and bad. The good guys—the non-smokers—had nice smiling faces and clean clothes. The bad guys held cigarettes in their hands and they had those short, downturned brows that made them scowl and holes in their jeans. But smokers don’t really look like that. Lots of people smoke, does that make them all bad people?” She sniffles. “I don’t smoke. What makes me so irredeemable?”

  Muffled cries.

  In a moment of weakness, I speak my thought. “Prove to me that you really care and go away. Disappear.”

  There’s a sharp gasp followed by Avery screaming, “You think it’s so easy! Why don’t you disappear, then?”

  The ring of her sobs fills the room and I cover my ears.

  56

  —Angel

  “Blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . .”

  The last three days have been hell. I’m paying in spades for speaking to her. Avery hasn’t shut up since that night in my room.

  “Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah-blah blah. Blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah blah.”

  She’s constantly going! Babbling!

  Not trying to communicate. No, she’s trying to control me. She’s trying to push me into reacting!

  She’s pushing.

  Pushing further.

  Pushing.

  She won’t stop until she gets what she wants.

  “Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de la blah, blah-blah . . .”

  I am at my breaking point. I was never the violent one, but I’ve been dreaming of squ
eezing the life out of her.

  A few hours ago, my doctor informed me that I lost another two pounds and so he’s made a formal request to commence forced feeding.

  “Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah la blah, blah de blah . . .”

  It is crushing me.

  I’ve lost the only hand I had to play.

  I don’t know what else to do.

  “Blah, blah, blah-blah . . .”

  They think I’m crazy now? If Avery doesn’t stop . . . I’ll go stark-raving bat-shit.

  Staring at the tiled wall of the shower stall, I let the spray hit my head. It washes into my ears and I can’t hear anything for one blessed second. Then her voice is back.

  “Blurdy-blah-lah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah . . .”

  If I only had a gun.

  She won’t say anything meaningful and she won’t fucking stop!

  Determined to focus on anything but her grating voice, I note how the water isn’t very hot. It’s all Goldie-locks. Not too hot, not too cold, not just right, but okay. The sound of warm spray hitting and dripping helps soften the razor-edge of Avery’s incessant pressure, but nothing can block her out.

  “Blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . .” There’s a sing-song tonality to her bullshit. As if she’s delivering a meaningful monologue.

  I step closer to the shower wall and wish, again, for a gun. I’d splatter her brains all over the plain white tiles. As my mind conjures the images, I think . . .

  Yeah . . . I’m getting an idea.

  Yes! Excitement courses through me as the images of a plan form in my head. Yes. A damned brilliant one! So simple, I can’t believe I didn’t think it up sooner!

  My chest swells with newfound hope, but I don’t let myself smile as I reach for the shampoo and sloppily pour the thick liquid soap, making a big puddle in my palm that runs down my hand and arm, slowly making its’ way down my body to the floor in front of me.

  A wicked excitement cracks at one corner of my mouth as I massage the puddle between my palms and drag my toes over the dribbled spot on the slick floor.

  “Blah, la blah, blah-blah! Blah, blah, blah-blah . . .”

  Looking at the shower wall, I am concentrating. I have to be quick and very cautious. On the off-chance that this latest stroke of genius doesn’t work, I have to be able to try again.

  It has to look like a freak accident.

  “Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah.” Avery blabs on, waving a hand in front of her, examining her splayed fingers, as if she’s just polished her nails.

  I slather my hair with the shampoo and start scrubbing, digging into my scalp with my fingernails, and working up a pile of lather.

  “Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah . . .”

  I have to turn around. I have to get just the right angle.

  As I spin, I carefully slide my other foot across the remaining puddle of shampoo on the shower floor. Letting the lather sit in my hair, I grab the bar of soap and move over, just enough, out of the showers spray to start greasing myself up.

  “La-blah, blah-de-blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah. La-blah, blah, La-blah-de-blah . . .” Avery’s annoying squawk slowly becomes background noise as I focus.

  I need every surface of my body slicked down.

  Once I’m done, I slyly check the proximity of the wall at my back and run my fingers over the sudsy mass on my head, dragging over my hair, pushing the suds down my body to pool at my feet before running down the drain.

  The orderly that’s been supervising my shower is just standing there with her hands in her pockets. I can tell by the bored look on her face that she doesn’t have a clue.

  Avery opens her mouth wide, “Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, la-blah de-blah, blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah . . .”

  I open mine, too. But I am singing Jakes first song, Hall of Fire. “Now I’m finally getting old. Drinking Sherry, growing mold . . .”

  On the count of three.

  “Blah, la blah, blah . . .”

  “This life is not what I was sold.” I let the melody hang, like my head.

  One.

  Bending my neck as far forward as I can, my chin touches my chest. I’m sorry, Jake.

  “Blah-de-blah-blah blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah.” Avery babbles in tune, singing along.

  My feet begin to move, slipping across the floor in what I hope appears to be an impromptu dance to the rhythm in my head. “We didn’t make it . . .”

  Two.

  With one last deep breath and all the momentum I can muster, I jerk and shift, whipping my neck back, aiming for the cement tiles of the shower wall.

  I get it now: Good. Bye.

  Three.

  “We didn’t make it after—”

  57

  —Angel

  I’m a stone.

  I have been thrown. I plopped into the water and am sinking to the bottom.

  A great river thrashes around me.

  Fish float belly up along the surface of the murky damp.

  Its cold, but I don’t shiver.

  Then hot, but I don’t burn.

  I want the water to lift me, to sweep me from this place on its’ current.

  58

  —Angel

  I’m awake?

  Shit.

  There is a gigantic pulsing pain streaking from my forehead to my neck.

  Shitty shit!

  And the doctor is convinced I need to see it.

  After a quick glance at the enormous knot protruding over my right eye, I drop the handle of the mirror.

  He rattles on about my “intraparenchymal hemorrhage with contusions.” Or some idiot crap like that.

  I could not care less if I wanted to. It’s useless.

  I’m useless.

  A complete failure.

  Shit. Shit.

  Shit.

  Shit.

  Shitty-shit.

  Shit.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  59

  —Angel

  I don’t know how long I’ve been in the infirmary and won’t ask. I’ve accepted that I’m a useless good-for-nothing and stopped trying.

  I do whatever they tell me.

  It’s hopeless. Useless.

  I screw up everything. Every. Time.

  So, when they tell me to eat, I eat. Maybe I’ll get lucky and choke.

  They tell me to sleep, I sleep.

  They want me to piss, I piss.

  I take their zombie medications and hope for an incompetent nurse and an overdose.

  I wish they would tell me to die.

  60

  —Angel

  The nurses and doctors want to know what happened even though there is an eyewitness who told them I was showering like I always did. My supervising orderly would say I was smiling, singing, and stupidly trying to dance in the shower while covered in slippery soap. I know that’s what the orderly saw, because that’s what I did.

  But they’re still asking. They want me to say it. They want me to tell them I tripped so they can ask if that’s the truth. They want to call me a liar.

  “Mister Brandon has been calling every day to check on you. I have the number, so whenever you’re ready to call, let me know and I’ll make sure it happens.” Some random nurse says.

  “Mister Brandon. I don’t want to talk to him.” I turn over in my bed, staring at the wall while the patter of retreating feet fades from my room.

  The last thing I need right now is another announcement. Another judgment. Another person repeating to me the same words I was told when my trial ended: I
will die in this place. Apparently, it will be later rather than sooner.

  I scoff, thinking of dying and wishing that A—and stop the thought right there. I’ve not seen . . . hide or hair of a certain someone since that day in the shower.

  I woke up without . . . and don’t want to jinx anything.

  If I wonder too much . . .

  . . . might appear up and start in on me.

  61

  —Angel

  An orderly sets my lunch on the tray table. He’s too far off to one side, so I can’t see what he’s doing until the table rolls over in front of me, swinging over my bed, just above my lap.

  It’s all steaming finger food. Lucky me—no flatware required. The orderly remains quiet, watching me while I slowly eat.

  When I push the tray away, I hear the quiet scratch of writing. Recording my intake.

  Not long after he’s gone, a different nurse enters. She’s got my little paper cups of medication and a clear plastic cup of apple juice. I swallow down the contents of each container she hands me and open my mouth wide, showing all my teeth, wiggling my tongue around so she can see I took all of them. “It would be nice if you could learn to trust me.”

  She almost smiles. “Trust has nothing to do with it. It’s in my job description.”

  Not long after she’s gone, the clean lines of the room and walls fray, but my mind sharpens. Conversely, my limbs are overcome with that familiar leaden sensation.

  And the room is so quiet. There are no feet shuffling, no muffled sounds in the corners or creaks in the walls. It’s just a wonderful, tranquil quiet. A feeling I don’t think I have ever felt before.

  I wonder if smashing my head on the shower wall knocked something right, because I have never felt this level of . . . precision. Clarity. It’s strange, my entire life I lived with a sort of confused duality and was never able to recognize it. Now that it’s gone, though, I can feel the difference. The neurological oneness.

  +++

  After I’ve surrendered to living inside the curtain of heavy haze, Mister Brandon magically appears. I didn’t see him walk in or hear a knock. He’s just suddenly here, sitting beside my bed. Talking. And even though I didn’t catch the beginning of his monologue, I’m kind of following along.