Just Roll With It: a Just Us novel (34 page)

I hurry into the living room to see what the hell is going on. I'm expecting to walk into a scene from my own murder mystery. I picture it going something like,

Roman walks into the living room to find out what the hell is going on. The first thing to catch his attention is the blood splatter down the hallway wall. He anxiously follows it in anticipation for the what's ahead. Rounding the corner, he takes in the scene in front of him. He sees her. His ex-girlfriend stands over the bodies of his family holding the crimson kitchen knife now dripping red.

When she senses his presence, she looks up and whispers one word, "Run."

In reality, when I round the corner, all I see is my mom sitting in her armchair folding clothes.

"Good morning, honey, how was your night?"

"Actually—" I stop short when I see our beagle, Foxy, run past me, barking and jumping. I watch the battle between her and her toy intensify. She whips it back and forth in her mouth, growling and chewing as she goes.

When Foxy is finally satisfied the thing is dead, and she was the one to kill it, she drops it to the floor and begins to pet and rub her body on it. I'm not sure if she's doing a victory dance or if it's some sort of twisted nurture back to life thing.

I can't contemplate the subject for long because it's then I realize the toy she's playing with is actually Rigbee's thong panties from last night. I wasn't shown them purposely. She just never wears a belt.

"Dude, I thought I heard someone screaming."

"Yeah, me too. I assumed it was Rigbee and you playing around in your room."

We both then turn to the opposite hallway to find a pale and ghost-like Rigbee slowly walk up. I'm about to ask her what has gotten her so shaken up, but the look on her face tells me I don't want to know. Still walking like a zombie, she makes her way to the couch and sits down.

"Are those my clothes from last night?" she asks my mom and points to the stack of laundry.

"Yeah, honey, I found them in the bath. They looked like they could use a washing."

"Well, they were seven layers deep in dirt," Rigbee tells her, still seemingly confused as to why they're in our laundry. "You really didn't have to. I mean, they were bad. I was probably going to end up throwing them away."

"It's quite all right, honey. I got most of it out. Nothing a little stain remover can't handle. But, it did look like you guys had quite the night. Stain remover couldn't help your poor shoes, I'm afraid."

"Really you—wait, are those … Are those my underwear?" she asks, sounding mortified. She places her face in her hands and groans. I'm thinking about how I'm not sure she's going to come up for air, when my dad walks in. He strolls over and stands at the back of the couch behind Bee. I curiously watch as he makes a ridiculous gesture like he's taking a bow.

"Well, welcome to the family," he proudly states.

I stare at them, completely confused at their interaction. He laughs a deep and guttural laugh before walking to the kitchen to get a coffee. I look over at Rigbee.

"You don't wanna know." She's beet-red and shakes her head back and forth in her hands.

"I do now." I laugh.

"Your dad was in there. He. Was. In. There," she emphasizes.

"In where?"

"In the bathroom! I walked into the bathroom, and he was in there!"

I stop laughing for a second. “Okay, but does that really warrant—"

"He was not standing!" Oh. I begin laughing even harder now. "It's not funny. The door was not locked. Why didn't he lock the door?" She makes a groaning noise and buries her face again.

I had forgot about my mom sitting right by us in her chair, but her loud ass cackle reminds me she heard the whole thing too. With both of us laughing at her now, Rigbee can't help but crack a grin. She's pissed, don't get me wrong, but she can't hold the laughter back anymore, either. The entire situation would be tragically uncomfortable, if it weren't so fucking funny.

I catch myself wondering if this is what life would be like all of the time with her, if I were to fully let her in. If I just apologize for everything I've been putting her through. Then we laugh about it and move on, together. But then I remember the look in her eyes in the car last night, when the last little bit of hope drained and died. I can't give her hope again. Those eyes need to remain hopeless, for both of our sanity. So, instead, I stand up and walk away. It is the hardest fucking decision I've ever made. 

It hurts to breathe. No, but for real, I have a respiratory infection. One more thing to add to the list of things I am being punished with for going to that stupid mud pit party. Who am I kidding? It would hurt to breathe anyway.

I refuse to participate in life today—getting sick from breathing in the chilly and damp air without thought, or a coat, all night at the bonfire in the woods has given me another reason not to. It's not the main one, though.

My panic is back in full attack. I don't even leave the house anymore, for fear something bad will happen. It was never this severe, not even in high school. I hate myself. I wonder sometimes if I'll ever stop hating myself for being this way.

My mom and Enzo keep trying to reassure me with all of the, "It's not your fault, it's a medical condition, you can't help it" crap, but it doesn't make me feel any better. Sure there is some truth to their what they're saying, I know how PTSD works and all, but there is a point when you have to call bullshit on yourself. When you stop taking the steps to try and get better or work through it, for example. Then the problem is not entirely medical, not when you're giving up. Only lazy cowards give up. I'm a lazy coward. Only one of many reasons I hate myself. And everyone knows the saying if you can't like yourself, then nobody else can, and knowing how true those words are makes me even more high strung and anxious. It's a vicious circle, and it's destroying me from the inside out. So what do I do about it? I take my meds and knock myself the fuck out.

I don't know how long I've stayed in bed. I only get up to shower. Actually, that's a lie. I wouldn't even do that. The panic-induced depression has officially passed the stage of only affecting me emotionally. I cannot physically move anymore. I'm too weak. I am a weak person on the inside and now on the out. I only stir from my medicine-made coma when Enzo or my mom physically make me. Now must be one of those times. Don't get me wrong, I'm on a shit ton of meds, but even in my obscure realm of minimal consciousness I'm pretty sure that's what is happening. My mom is running me a bath. I hazily hear water.

Then the liquid sound is drowned out by Enzo entering my room. I know it's him because the footsteps are too heavy and clumsy to be Mom's. I still can't move so I don't try to turn around. The weight of my bed shifts as he lies down behind me. I'm facing the wall, but even if I could move I wouldn't want to. I don't want him to see me. The drugs have made me resort back to my toddler years, when it was acceptable to play peek-a-boo or hide and seek. I really thought if I covered my eyes then I would be invisible. If I can't see them, then they obviously can't see me.
Why doesn't hiding work anymore. Why can't I shut my eyes and be invisible now?

Enzo knows talking and bargaining with me doesn't work anymore, so he doesn't even try. The skin on my arms and legs pinch when he slides his hands under me to get a good grip. I know what is going to happen. This is not the first time since my insubordinate body has conceded, have I been grudgingly disentangled and uprooted from my anchored self-pity at their behest for basic sanitary purposes. I used to care enough to fight them on it. I've since lost the will to bother. Once again, I am lifted against my will and carried into the bathroom.

I give no thought to the fact my mom is undressing me. The first time they did this, I remember how uncomfortable the whole thing was, Enzo constantly trying to direct his eyes toward anything but me, but now this is my new normal. Something so trivial doesn't even matter.

Each of them grab an arm and they help me get myself in. I have to admit the steaming hot water feels good against my cold skin. I lay my head back against the porcelain and try to block everything else out. It works, until one of them dumps the bucket of hot water over my head. This is new.

Four arms come at me at once. Enzo squirts the shampoo in my hair and goes at it, while my mom uses the conditioner on my legs. Weird. Then I see the razor she is armed with in her other hand.
Oh, hell no.
I try to push all of the arms and hands away, however it does nothing but make a mess. With my legs kicking and all of the arms tangled and fighting with each other, the water splashes all around. I don't have the energy to fight and eventually get pinned down. Their clothes are soaking wet. I'm such a horrible human.

Once they're sure I'm not going to try to escape again, they continue on with the washing and shaving. I shouldn't have resisted because Enz is not quite as gentle as before when he scrubs at my head. I'm guessing this is how Katniss felt every time the glam squad scrubbed and buffed her for The Hunger Games

It must not have been as long as it seemed since I completely checked out because this is the first time my hygiene helpers have tried to wash my hair and shave me. So, there's that.

"Put your makeup on and get dressed." Enz throws my makeup bag toward me.

"You're insane. I'm going back to bed." I'm back in the safety of my room now and have no plans of leaving it. "Where did my mom go?"

"She's in the kitchen making you coffee."

I grunt in annoyance as I crawl back under my covers and put my face in my hands. They're not planning on leaving me alone again. Blankets get ripped off of me and the cold air hits with a fierceness, even with my fluffy robe on. I curl up into the fetal position and will him away. Until I get hit with hangers and fabric.

"Get up. We're going to Canada," Enzo not so politely informs me.

"What the— Why the hell would you think that?"

"Because tomorrow's my birthday. Or did you forget that too?"

I did forget that, but I won't admit it to him, ever.

"Of course not. But do I really look like I am in any sort of shape to go to Canada?"

"Nope. You look like shit."
Thanks
.

"See, there you go." I hold my hands out to him to exaggerate the obvious.

"But it's my birthday, and you're going anyway." Gahhhhh.

"Moooom!" I yell loud enough for her to hear me from the kitchen. I'm about to tell on Enzo like a spoiled child ratting out her annoying little brother.

"Don't ‘Mom’ me. Get your ass up and get ready. You're going, and you're going to have fun and get out of this slump you're in," she tells me, as she walks into the room with a cup of coffee.

The whining backfired.

"But I don't want to!"

"What do you want to do, sweetie?" she sincerely asks me. She really wants to know, because she knows it's not this.

"I just want to sleep until I don't feel sad or have panic attacks anymore. And, I just want to cry. And, I just want to wear yoga pants at all times." I start to cry. "And, I just want to look pretty while I'm wearing my yoga pants all the time." The crying increases the more I talk. "And I just want to have my boyfriend back." I barely get the last words out through the hiccups and the sniffling.

I'm full-on ugly crying now. My mom rubs my back until I run out of tears. My red eyes are dried up and my throat hurts. In the end, I concede, not like I was given a choice, but I was warming to the idea of it.

"Fine. Let's go to Canada. Yay." I wave my hand in the air with fake enthusiasm.
Fucking Canada.