22
Violet
M y eyes sting as if someone flung a fistful of sand in my face. You’d think living in the clouds would mean noise. The constant howl of the wind at the very least, but either the penthouse is soundproof, or there’s no wind this high up.
I sit on the floor in my bedroom, staring at the city below. I’ve already counted the leaves dotting the wallpapered feature wall behind my bed. I counted again to see how many there were in each of the three shades of green. I counted the twinkling streetlamps dotting the streets below, and now I’m counting the cars, imagining the noise they’re making.
But my imagination can’t fool my brain.
The penthouse is deathly quiet, the silence more prominent than at Carter’s. At least there, the clock on the wall ticked. There’s nothing here. The whole place is ultramodern, a silent, digital smart home run on touchscreens and voice activation: lights, music, blinds, room temperature... none of them operated by an analog switch I could flick up and down to muffle the screams inside my head. Despite spending half an hour poking the screen in my bedroom, I can’t find a setting that’ll isolate music to this room.
My afternoon nap should’ve recharged my batteries for a few days... I haven’t slept more than two hours at once for weeks, so almost six should’ve been plenty, but my body is so deprived of rest, always on high alert, that despite the long nap, my system’s begging to crash.
I can barely hold my head up, but the silence... so oppressive, makes me feel like the walls are closing in, squeezing the air from my lungs. The good news is that it’s almost four in the morning. Just a few more hours before Broadway gets up and starts making noise.
We stayed in the living room for a long while, trying different pastas and talking. I could have done it all night, but Broadway looked exhausted, the circles under his eyes darkening by the minute. I can’t order him into bed, so I said it was time we both got some sleep.
Though, of course, I knew I’d be staring out the window until morning.
Huffing a long breath, I think back to the bottle of wine sitting on the coffee table. We barely had a glass each. Maybe if I finish what’s left, my mind will just give up.
I wonder if, now that I really feel safe, my body’s allowing the exhaustion to properly kick my butt. After all, I spent almost six weeks in Carter and Hailey’s house, barely sleeping, but I never felt this sick with sleep deprivation.
My vision doubles as I haul myself up, bored with the view from my window. Every step I take is on leaden legs. It almost feels like I’m shaking inside as I cross the room and open the door.
Quietly, careful not to wake Broadway, I make my way down the hallway, illuminated by a faint strip of LED lights where the floor meets the walls. It cuts off as I enter the living room and tiptoe across the area rug to grab the uncorked wine bottle.
It’ll go to waste if I don’t drink it...
Settling by the piano, I stare at Columbus once more, taking it in from a different angle. My eyes are heavy, my pulse irregular, and every sip of the wine makes me feel drowsy, though not enough to pass out.
And that’s when I hear it.
A faint whooshing sound, interrupted by a gentle clicking.
The whoosh reminds me of the wind. Constant, steady wind... aircon . How did I miss it before?
Glancing around, my ears perked, I search for the vents in the darkness. It’d be helpful if there were LED lights running the perimeter of this room, but they’re only twinkling out in the hallway.
As if in a trance, I drop to my hands and knees, crawling around, my thoughts narrowed to the whoosh and click . Soon enough, I find the first vent. Cool air caresses my face as I bend over it, waiting for the click... it doesn’t come, so I move on.
It’s not until I’m halfway down the hallway, just a few steps from the kitchen entrance, that I come across the clicking. The sound is rhythmic, as if whatever’s turning inside the vent clicks with every turn. And now I’m so close, it’s much louder than the clock in my bedroom at Carter’s.
Relief floods my system.
I’m half incoherent with exhaustion, like I’m balancing between reality and dream. There’s nothing in my head save for that click and the hum of air while I curl my hand under my head and nuzzle as close to the vent as possible.
My muscles start melting, the hard floor hurting my bones the last thing on my mind. I almost can’t feel it. With each passing second, it feels more and more like I’m floating, my body surrendering to sleep when my messed-up brain finally allows.