Chapter Six #2
I stand under the spray for as long as my legs will hold me, willing the water to wash away everything that is wrong with me.
If only I could get a grip on myself, I might be able to bring back the girl who used to move through life without effort.
I always had a smile and a sarcastic comment at the ready.
My skin was so thick, nothing fazed me. Now, everything feels so much more overwhelming.
Every thought is louder and my self-esteem is being dragged through the dirt.
None of which will be fixed by draining all of the hot water from the tank.
After scrubbing my skin until it’s pink and shampooing my hair multiple times with someone else’s products, I don a stranger’s towel for the walk to my room down the hall.
It’s quiet, thankfully, as I pad on bare feet, my ruined sportswear and phone bundled under my arm.
Just as I pass my neighboring apartment, noting how the rock music is leaking through the walls, the door swings open and I freeze.
Not because I’m naked and dripping wet, but because I’m probably hallucinating.
A man stands there, around a foot taller than me, lean and faintly muscled.
Paint stains his baggy sleeveless t-shirt, chains hang from his flared jeans.
Tattoos coat his skin, knuckles to biceps, and there’s a silver ring circling the side of his bottom lip.
Gray, stormy eyes stare out from beneath a flare of stark-white hair, trapped beneath the confines of a beanie hat.
“You!” I shriek. He doesn’t react, except for a slight hitch of his brow. “You were at the rehab facility with me. You were in my therapy sessions. Are you…are you following me?” This earns an eye roll, and his Adam’s apple bobs before he speaks.
“Do you always think the world revolves around you?”
The blood drains from my head, leaving me questioning my reality.
Is he really here, am I even real, are we all just part of someone else’s simulation?
Too many questions that stun me silent and cause me to rock back on my heels.
Still watching me intently, he raises the brow that has a metal bar pierced through it.
“I can see this needs to be broken down slowly,” he drawls.
I instantly come back to myself, that fight I’ve learnt to hide behind rising to the surface.
Condescension seems to be the trigger. “Where did you expect them to put the rehab kids, if not right next to the teacher’s quarters where we can be monitored closely? ”
I open my mouth to argue, to pretend I already knew that, but the words die somewhere behind the raw burn in my throat.
Of course, I’m not the only messed-up one around here, and of course, they put us all together.
He’s probably just as screwed up and scrutinized as I am.
Still, the surprise of seeing him again out of seemingly nowhere unsettles me.
“You could at least turn your music down,” I mutter, yanking my towel higher as if I can protect myself from the way his eyes study me like he already has me figured out. “Some of us nearly died today.”
His eyes grow cloudier, as if he’s making an effort to ignore me, even though I’m standing right in front of him.
“And some of us are trying to drown out the fact that other people even exist.” Turning away from me, I see the flash of a canvas on an easel and several more stacked against the wall in his room.
I cock my head, finding myself more curious than ever.
He’s about to shut me out, probably for good, and the opportunity of having someone in a similar situation to me is slipping through my fingers.
“Wait, I don’t even know your name,” I blurt out. He stops, half twisted away from me to look back over his shoulder.
“Good,” he replies, and slams the door shut in my face. For a second, I just stand there, blinking at the peeling paint on his door, stunned into silence.
“Well, fuck me, I guess,” I mutter, shaking my head as I turn down the hall and let myself into my room. Luckily, I tucked a spare key behind the fire extinguisher. A trick my mom taught me for our apartment back home, in case I ever decided to visit last minute while she was out of town.
The second I step inside, I go still. Fresh linen and faint hints of lavender wash over me, like someone aired the place out.
Apparently, they have, given that the window is wide open, a new set of keys sit on the side.
My eyes sweep over the unfamiliar room as if seeing it for the first time. I suppose I am.
A faint hum emanates from my computer, already powered on with the dual monitors glowing gently.
The desk it rests on is new, sleek and wooden, set up with a diary, planner, sticker packs, highlighters and a Stanley cup.
My familiar chair has been moved over from the rehab, but the small bookshelf stacked with spines is new.
The bed is every girl’s dream of fluffy cushions and a blanket that appears to be weighted.
Tears prick the back of my eyes, this time from relief.
With everything that was going on today, I’d completely forgotten Thiago was sending the removals company over with my computer.
But the rest of this stuff is completely unexpected.
I drift further inside and toy with the corner of the blanket in my fingers.
Yep, it’s weighted. I sigh out all of the lingering tension in my body and sink down, bouncing slightly on a mattress that was definitely not this comfortable yesterday.
“Oh sweet mother of small mercies,” I groan orgasmically. The towel slips a little, but I don’t care. I wriggle up to the cushions, allowing the mattress to absorb the defeat of the day, the ache behind my eyes, and the low-grade tremble that hasn’t left me since the smoke.
I exhale a breath that feels like I’ve been holding for years and sleep finds me immediately.