RUSH (City Lights, #3)(11)

I told the music system to shut the f*ck up, and found the edge of the bed with my legs, the bedside table with my left hand. My fingers brushed a small plastic bottle—in my mind it was orange with a white cap—and I heard it roll, then fall off the table. It hit the ground near my foot, and then rolled some more.

“Fucking hell,” I muttered even as a pang of something really damn close to panic lanced through me. I couldn’t lose track of those meds. They were the only things that kept the Monster asleep.

I knelt on the hardwood floor, keeping my bearings between the bed and the table, and felt around for the bottle. I found it against the bed’s leg and gripped it tightly in my hand. Still kneeling, I felt around for a clear space on the end table, and using both hands, stood up the bottle carefully next to the small lamp—useless f*cking thing—and I oriented the pills to its base, so I would know where they were. I couldn’t risk knocking the bottle again, so I let go of the end table and stood up in the empty black.

This wasn’t my house. I’d grown up in NYC, but in a bigger townhouse my parents sold when Ava and I went to college. This was their “little place in the city”, and before the accident I’d only been here a handful of times. Before the accident, the entire planet was my home: flats and apartments, mansions and hotels…I slept in fancy resorts, crashed on friends’ couches, slept in village huts or under the open sky. On every continent.

But this place was an older couples’ home. My mother was forever redecorating when they lived here so I had no idea what the f*ck it might look like, and even after holing up here for three months, I still didn’t know the layout. It was still an alien landscape I couldn’t quite map.

But the journey from bed to bathroom was familiar, as it was my most oft-made trek. Twelve steps to the bathroom door and the cool hardwood under my bare feet became cold porcelain tile. Four more steps to the dual sinks on my right, and then four more and my pathetic, groping hands touched the glass enclosure of the shower. The bathroom was huge. Cavernous. Every sound amplified.

I found the knob in the shower and began the ridiculous trial-and-error dance of trying to get the temperature just right. A two-second, counter-clockwise turn was usually about right, but sometimes I over or undershot it and either scalding or frigid water rained down. It never ceased to amaze me how f*cking complicated the simplest of things had become.

I stripped off my sweatpants, boxer-briefs, and the t-shirt that reeked of old sweat. I managed to make it through the shower without dropping anything, or using hair conditioner instead of soap, and carefully—really damn carefully—stepped out and felt around the rack for a towel.

Empty.

Of course. Because both towels were on the floor somewhere, either in this huge bathroom, or lying discarded in the bedroom somewhere. And since Trevor quit, there’d been no one to do laundry. Not that Trevor had been enthusiastic. Not that I’d wanted that * washing my clothes.

I stood on the bath mat, dripping water and getting cold. Now what?

Now. The f*ck. What.

I didn’t stink anymore, but I had no clean towels and my bed sheets were in dire need of changing too.

Why did I bother with a shower? Why did I bother with anything? I vacillated between not giving a shit and trying. Trying to carry on, or move forward, or whatever psychotherapy bullshit mantras I’d heard during the grueling, torturous months of my physical rehab. Sometimes I really wanted to break out of this rage that was wrapped around me like a straight-jacket, and figure it all out. Try to adjust. Put some real effort into being well-adjusted.

Oh, how that would make Mom and Dad proud.

Most times, like standing there in the shower with no clean towel and my skin raising goose bumps, I just wanted to put my fist through the glass. I wanted to hear it shatter, feel the hard pain, the hot blood dripping. I fought to control the urge, taking deep gulps of air. I felt my way back into the bedroom.

My dresser was in one of the walk-in closets, across from the bed. I made my way in and felt for the handle on the third drawer. It was almost empty. Only two t-shirts left. I used one to dry myself and pulled the other over my head. I felt the scratch of the label on my throat.

The irritation was swift and sharp.

I tore my arms out, spun it around, put it back on right-side front because God knew I didn’t want to look like a ridiculous, pathetic blind * who couldn’t put his f*cking shirt on the right way for the legions of No One who inhabited my world now. I found clean underwear in the second drawer and one last pair of sweat pants, then hit the button on my watch.

The time is 4:10 a.m. on March 31st.

Good God, it had taken me nearly an hour to do what used to take me fifteen minutes. But I’d done it. That should have counted for something. Right? Didn’t I deserve an A for effort?

Instead, I felt the first twinges at the back of my head—a faint, warm glow of pain that would burst into an inferno if I let it.

The Monster was waking.

I felt my way around the bed and grabbed the pill bottle off the side table. I didn’t dare fumble my way to the bathroom sink for some water. I pushed and twisted the cap off, sucked one capsule into my mouth, and swallowed it dry.

Dirty sheets be damned, I hurriedly climbed back into bed and lay perfectly still on my back, willing the Monster to go back into hibernation. I eased a sigh that it seemed to be, that I’d caught it in time. The pain got no worse then a mild headache and then began to recede altogether.