31. Day 90 – Caterina
My foot smashes out, landing directly in the middle of Cecile’s stomach as she attempts to drag me out of bed.
She crumples like a house of cards, a grunt escaping her as I roll over and face the wall. My arms wrap around my abdomen, grabbing at the skin as if I might be able to rip out the stabbing pain that keeps coming and going.
Hard breathing. “You little bitch. I can’t wait until you’re gone.”
I focus on the walls, on the way they warp and push toward me, the space around me shrinking.
Real, or not real?
Cecile is still talking.
“Will you shut up?”
“What?”
Sighing, I look over at her. She’s painting her nails, each one the color of blood. Slow and precise, several bottles of color laid out next to her.
She catches my stare. “I’m not your fucking babysitter.”
“I don’t need one.” I turn back to that moving wall.
There’s movement at the door. Cecile sighs. “Thank fuck. She’s not making any sense, and she needs to get ready.”
At the low rumble, I tense.
Not real.
That’s not real.
I slam my hands over my face, hard enough that an ache springs up in my skull. “Not real.”
None of it is real. I worked that out days ago. The little glimpses of each of them, the conversations. And just like every time before, my heart shreds at that knowledge.
It’s not fucking real.
“Cat.” There are hands gripping mine, and they feel so warm, so present, that it hurts when I rip myself away and scrabble back. “It’s alright. Look at me.”
Not real.
Not real.
The sobs break free, the sobs and the anger as I claw at them, my hands ripping until they’re pinned down.
“Cat.” The voice breaks. “Please – just look at me.”
No.
I will not look.
It only hurts more when I do.