Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 79137 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 396(@200wpm)___ 317(@250wpm)___ 264(@300wpm)
"Tell me it gets better," she said, and I wasn't sure if she meant dealing with the death or the addiction.
Either way, it was the same answer. "It doesn't, but you learn better ways to cope. And, eventually, it's not something you think about every single day anymore and you can start living again."
"Living sounds good," she told my chest, taking a long, deep breath and letting it out slowly before her hands gently loosened their hold before releasing me altogether.
Then she took the plate and the bottle and went back into the bed room, her slow gait likely suggesting her muscles were doing the screaming thing and she needed to get off her feet before they gave out from under her.
Not sure what to do, I fussed around in the kitchen for a while, answered some texts from Cyrus jokingly asking for updates on the sex and a few from Ross who was filling me in on details for the fight.
The food stayed in her for all of half an hour before she was in the bathroom throwing it back up. But at least it was long enough for the Advil to get in her system. After she was back in bed, I went in to find her shaking again.
I pulled the blankets up and climbed in with her.
And that was pretty much that- holding her through the chills, trying to keep fluids, Advil, and a couple bites of food in her, then feeling bad for her as it all came back up again.
We talked occasionally, mostly to try to distract her from how shitty she felt- silly little things like the shows that were on TV and the food she would want to eat when she stopped getting sick all the time.
Shower. Rinse. Repeat.
Until early Monday morning.
SIX
Bethany
It had been every bit as bad as I expected, as he had warned. Actually, because I was experiencing it firsthand and unrelenting, it was worse.
But, like he had promised, by late Sunday night, the symptoms started to lessen. I stopped throwing up which, well, I was starting to wonder if I would ever stop doing and how the hell anyone became bulimic.
The chills lessened slightly though I was pretty sure my internal temperature was still screwed up because I was simply freezing all the time.
The sweats let up.
It let me finally get a decent amount of sleep from Sunday into Monday, allowing me to wake up and feel mostly-human again.
I climbed out of bed and went into the bathroom, letting myself shower, trying to pull it together, trying to not feel quite so pathetic.
My muscles still hurt- a constant and dull ache that I was pretty sure there would be no getting used to; it would always be something I was conscious of until it eventually (I hoped) went away.
I got out and changed into another outfit Laz had gotten me, realizing for the first time just how considerate that was of him in the first place- sugar skull printed leggings in bright colors and a deep purple sweatshirt I was thankful for given how chilly I still was as I finger-combed my hair, brushed my teeth, and took a good hard look at myself.
I wasn't sure when the last time I had done it was. I guess it was a side-effect of being self-loathing; I didn't want to see what I was doing to myself. I didn't want to see the pupils that were off or the way my eyes would look like they were bugging or the way I would nod off even standing.
I looked the same. I should have looked different, it seemed, to become an addict. But I was still me with my freckles and pale skin and brown eyes and cleft chin. Maybe I was a couple pounds thinner, but that was more likely to almost seventy hours of vomiting and not eating than it was the drugs themselves. There were purple smudges of sleeplessness under my eyes.
But otherwise, just me.
Hopefully, from then on out, I could just be me. I could still face myself in the mirror. I would stop self-destructing.
Thanks to Lazarus.
On that, I moved out of the bathroom toward the sounds of him in the kitchen. Somewhere in the living room, a dock was playing something soft rocky. Lazarus was standing beside the stove, chopping something on a block steadily- the way chefs do it, without fully pulling the knife up each time. It was something I found oddly hot for reasons I didn't even begin to understand.
"Figured you might be up for some food today," he said, having heard me walk up though I did it silently.
"I think I can handle it," I agreed, putting a hand to my belly which was painfully empty.
"Trying for somewhat bland," he said as I moved in closer to see what he was chopping- potatoes and onions. "Breakfast potatoes and plain scrambled eggs. If you can handle that, we can maybe consider your wish for ravioli for lunch," he offered, making my lips turn up. "Nuh-uh," he said when my hand went toward the coffee pot.