46. Bailey
forty-six
Bailey
The following weeks are a distorted blend of alcohol, arguments, and tears. Isolation and exhaustion. The weariness drags me back to bed every time I get up with intention. Any plans to shower and get dressed are refuted by apathy and disillusionment.
I requested euthanasia last night, but Peyton just rolled her eyes. Health insurance should cover palliative care for broken hearts. Stress cardiomyopathy is a legitimate diagnosis, and I don’t see why that wouldn’t justify at least some good pain medications.
Lost your best friend? Fentanyl.
I haven’t heard from Liam since the funeral. I’ve wondered if talking to me is too painful because it forces him to relive that night in the same way I do. Flashing lights, copper, smoke, sirens, blood. So much blood. Screaming. Vomit.
I shake my head, trying to force the memories from the neuronal ensembles forcing me to revisit that night indefinitely.
Lolly texted me. I didn’t respond but I read it. I felt it. It ripped off a scab and made me itch and bleed in more places than I already had been.
Oblivion via alcohol and dreamless sleep are now my only escape.