Total pages in book: 62
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59120 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 236(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Violet is there almost always.
But sometimes she’s gone, and I wake in a panic.
She always comes back in, as if she knows I need her.
Right now, she sits at the edge of the bed and just watches me, this look on her face that I can’t quite pinpoint. She never asks me if I need anything, but she always seems to know just what to get. None of it matters, anyway. Right now there is nothing except this cold sweat, the walls crawling, every bone in my body vibrating from withdrawal. And her, in the doorway or sitting on the bed, teaching me how to not fucking die.
“You want me to call someone?” she asks, voice low, careful not to push.
I roll onto my back, sweat making the sheets far too wet for my liking. “Who, a priest?”
She snorts. “I was thinking Chief.”
“Fuck that. He’ll tell me to get up, get on with it, and to stop being such a fucking baby.”
She laughs. Full on, bright and sharp, and for a second I think maybe I could actually get through it if I just heard her laugh enough.
Then the cramp in my stomach rips through me and I curl inward, knees to my chest, face mashed into the wet pillow. I feel the bed dip as she sits beside me, and her hand on my back is gentle, feather-light, like she’s scared of shattering what’s left. After a minute I realize I’m crying. I didn’t even notice I was crying. My skin’s hot, my heart is pounding, I am embarrassed and sick and so fucking tired.
Fuck this.
Fuck all of it.
“You’re doing better than you think,” she murmurs.
“Why’re you still here? Surely, you don’t want to see this.” I croak.
She doesn’t say anything for a while. “I told you. I made a choice. I’m not leaving.”
“I’m not worth it. I’m an asshole. I’m weak. I’ll just—” Another spasm of pain, worse, this time it makes me arch up off the bed and shout. “Fuck!”
She waits for the wave to pass, then wipes the sweat from my forehead like she’s done this a million times before. “You’re not weak, Travis. You just hate yourself so much, you don’t let anything in unless it’s pain.”
“That’s poetic as fuck. Write that down for the next album?” My teeth rattle from the force of my own laughter.
She laughs softly. “I think we could make a pretty epic song out of this. I think I’m doing okay at helping you, so that’s something.”
“You’re good at fixing broken things,” I mutter.
“I used to be,” she says, her voice low. “We’ll see how I am at it now.”
For a while she sits with me and neither of us says anything. The pain moves around inside me, sometimes sharp, sometimes dull, always present. I feel her get up, and I panic, but she’s just going to the kitchen because a second later she’s back with water and a banana and a Tylenol cradled in her palm. She holds the cup to my lips and I drink, and I hate how much I love her for that tiny act.
The day is a loop of fever dreams and shaking and Violet, always Violet, sometimes reading from her phone but mostly just watching me, like she knows if she lets her attention slip, I’ll disappear. The second night, when my teeth refuse to stop chattering, she slides under the covers beside me, pulls my body into hers like she can somehow take it away. I bury my face in the hollow of her chest, and she runs her fingers through my hair.
“I love you so fucking much it terrifies me.”
She stops moving her hand, and then whispers back, “Me too.”
And for a second it’s better than any high I’ve ever chased.
The third day is the worst. My head is splitting, I can’t keep anything in, and I’m just so angry. At everything. At the memories in this house, the way my body betrays me, at Amber’s picture on the dresser, at Violet for coming back, for leaving, fuck, for everything. I growl at her. I say shit that she doesn’t even flinch at, even though I can see the way it hurts her.
She still doesn’t leave.
Part of me wonders if I’m pushing her, just to see if she will.
When I’m done, the poison burns itself out. I croak a sorry, and she answers simply by pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Later, after I’ve half-slept and the pain recedes to a buzz, I come to and the room is dark and quiet, except for the sound of her breathing. She’s still here, on the floor beside the bed, knees curled to her chest, head tilted against the mattress like she tried to stay awake and lost. I ache at the love I feel for her. I don’t deserve it, but I want to. I want to.