Total pages in book: 76
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 71679 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 358(@200wpm)___ 287(@250wpm)___ 239(@300wpm)
She’s half my size, but she’s capable. I have an image of her throwing me over her shoulders and stuffing me in the backseat of the car. She’s tough. A little warrior. Her fighting spirit shouldn’t matter, but it does.
It fucking does, and I need a distraction.
I find one by combing my hair, which is like hell, and getting changed, which is double hell. By the time Darby calls out that dinner is ready, I feel like I’m rattling around in a cage of pain, banging up against the bars, which are made of the crap that electrocutes a person.
I still make an effort to swallow it back, keep it trapped inside, and remain calm and impervious on the exterior.
Walking out of the room nearly kills me, but for an entirely different reason. There are no lights on in the cabin. Not one. The only light source is a small candle flickering on the red tabletop in the kitchen. Darby’s fish smells like heaven, even to my churning stomach. I’m so dizzy that I basically collapse into the seat she’s already pulled out.
She eyes me like she’s about to pick me up and make good on my thoughts of her shoulder-carrying me to the car, but she asks me about coffee instead. “Do you want coffee? I brought those beans from the shop you like.”
“No. Thank you.” She went to that shop and bought beans? Most other brands of coffee make my stomach burn, even on a good day. That shop, with its greasy beans, for some reason, never makes me want to retch.
Ugh, retching. The fish smells delicious; it really does, but the pain is like an ocean, and I’m just one tiny speck of a person, and I’m lost in it. Lost and so, so tired, and so, so sick. I know it’s coming. The one thing I’ve never wanted anyone to witness, and I’m not going to be able to hold it back. I need to retreat. To get the hell out of here. I’d rather hole up in the woods surrounding this cabin than let it happen here, but I know I won’t make it that far, and I will not let Darby see me dragging myself off like an injured animal to hide. That would scare the living tarnation out of her.
I make myself pick up my fork, but my arms are so heavy. The pain is infusing every bone and tendon. Every muscle and cell. And my hand won’t work. I make myself take a bite of the fish. It’s buttery and rubbed in herbs. Tender and good. Probably the best I’ve ever had. My hand shakes as the pain explodes. It’s more than white-hot this time, and it’s everywhere. The fork drops from my hand, clattering noisily to the floor. I push away from the table, desperate for something, anything, anywhere to hide, but my stomach is lurching, and there isn’t anywhere to go. I’m not going to make it to the bathroom.
There’s probably a garbage can under the sink, tucked away in the neat line of wooden cabinets. I stumble for it, wrenching open the door, and there is some ugly green monstrosity that passes for a trash can. It smells like compost and fish bits, which is more than enough to have me heaving up that one bite of fish and pretty much nothing else. It hurts more this way, but I can’t stop it. The endless retching. It makes my stomach turn inside out, and my throat burns. My mouth is vile, but the shame is worse than anything.
Worse than the puking. Worse than the pain that makes me feel like I’m little more than an animal. Worse than the ache in my body. Worse than just about everything. Except the memories. Like every time this happens, they flood back, reminders of who I am, where I came from, and why I’ll never escape this.
Cool hands. Cool hands are suddenly on the back of my neck and running down my back. My back is drenched in sweat, but I feel cool hands. “Whoa.” Her voice. Darby’s voice. So soft. A whisper. “Hey. I’m sorry, you didn’t have to try and eat. I knew you weren’t better. You’re sick, Leon. Let me help.”
I want to shove her off, but the pain is so blinding that I’m weak with it. I can’t. I can barely get my face out of the disgusting trash can. Her hands don’t leave my hair. She strokes it back off my forehead, then rests it on top of my head.
“Easy,” she whispers. “Don’t hit your head on the cabinet.” She guides me out and away from the fishy, citrusy, nasty smells. I collapse against the cabinets, hitting them hard with my shoulder. I am so mortified that I could die.