September Rain Bk 2, Savor The Days Series (47 page)

Muffled cries.

In a moment of weakness, I speak my
thought. “Prove to me that you really care and go away.
Disappear.”

There’s a sharp gasp followed by Avery
screaming, “You think it’s so easy! Why don’t you disappear,
then?”

The ring of her sobs fills the room
and I cover my ears.

56

—Angel

“Blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah.
Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la blah,
blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . .”

The last three days have been hell.
I’m paying in spades for speaking to her. Avery hasn’t shut up
since that night in my room.

“Blah-blah, blah. Blah la
blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah,
blah. Blah de blah-blah blah. Blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah
de blah, blah.
Blah de blah,
blah-blah blah. Blah la blah, blah, blah.
Blah de la blah, blah-blah blah.”

She’s constantly going!
Babbling!

Not trying to communicate. No, she’s
trying to control me. She’s trying to push me into
reacting!

She’s pushing.

Pushing further.

Pushing.

She won’t stop until she gets what she
wants.

“Blah-blah, blah. Blah la
blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah,
blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah
blah, la blah, blah de blah, blah.
Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah la blah, blah,
blah.
Blah de la blah, blah-blah . .
.”

I am at my breaking point. I was never
the violent one, but I’ve been dreaming of squeezing the life out
of her.

A few hours ago, my doctor informed me
that I lost another two pounds and so he’s made a formal request to
commence forced feeding.

“Blah-blah, blah. Blah la
blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah,
blah.
Blah de blah, blah-blah
blah. Blah, blah, blah-blah la blah, blah de blah . . .”

It is crushing me.

I’ve lost the only hand I had to
play.

I don’t know what else to
do.

“Blah, blah, blah-blah . .
.”

They think I’m crazy now? If Avery
doesn’t stop . . . I’ll go stark-raving bat-shit.

Staring at the tiled wall of the
shower stall, I let the spray hit my head. It washes into my ears
and I can’t hear anything for one blessed second. Then her voice is
back.

“Blurdy-blah-lah de blah,
blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah
blah. Blah, blah, blah, blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah
blah, blah, blah . . .
”

If I only had a
gun.

She won’t say anything meaningful and
she won’t fucking stop!

Determined to focus on anything but
her grating voice, I note how the water isn’t very hot. It’s all
Goldie-locks. Not too hot, not too cold, not just right, but okay.
The sound of warm spray hitting and dripping helps soften the
razor-edge of Avery’s incessant pressure, but nothing can block her
out.

“Blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah,
blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah, blah. Blah la
blah, blah-blah blah. Blah blah, blah . . .” There’s a sing-song
tonality to her bullshit. As if she’s delivering a meaningful
monologue.

I step closer to the shower wall and
wish, again, for a gun. I’d splatter her brains all over the plain
white tiles. As my mind conjures the images, I think . .
.

Yeah . . . I’m getting an
idea.

Yes!
Excitement courses through me as the images of a plan form in
my head.
Yes
. A
damned brilliant one! So simple, I can’t believe I didn’t think it
up sooner!

My chest swells with newfound hope,
but I don’t let myself smile as I reach for the shampoo and
sloppily pour the thick liquid soap, making a big puddle in my palm
that runs down my hand and arm, slowly making its’ way down my body
to the floor in front of me.

A wicked excitement cracks at one
corner of my mouth as I massage the puddle between my palms and
drag my toes over the dribbled spot on the slick floor.

“Blah, la
blah, blah-blah!
Blah, blah, blah-blah . .
.”

Looking at the shower wall, I am
concentrating. I have to be quick and very cautious. On the
off-chance that this latest stroke of genius doesn’t work, I have
to be able to try again.

It has to look like a freak
accident.

“Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah blah, la
blah, blah de blah, blah.” Avery blabs on, waving a hand in front
of her, examining her splayed fingers, as if she’s just polished
her nails.

I slather my hair with the shampoo and
start scrubbing, digging into my scalp with my fingernails, and
working up a pile of lather.

“Blah-blah, blah. Blah la blah, blah,
blah. Blah de blah, blah-blah blah. Blah-blah, blah, blah. Blah de
blah . . .”

I have to turn around. I have to get
just the right angle.

As I spin, I carefully slide my other
foot across the remaining puddle of shampoo on the shower floor.
Letting the lather sit in my hair, I grab the bar of soap and move
over, just enough, out of the showers spray to start greasing
myself up.

“La-blah,
blah-de-blah, blah-blah blah, la blah, blah. La-blah, blah,
La-blah-de-blah . . .”
Avery’s annoying
squawk slowly becomes background noise as I focus.

I need every surface of my body
slicked down.

Once I’m done, I slyly check the
proximity of the wall at my back and run my fingers over the sudsy
mass on my head, dragging over my hair, pushing the suds down my
body to pool at my feet before running down the drain.

The orderly that’s been supervising my
shower is just standing there with her hands in her pockets. I can
tell by the bored look on her face that she doesn’t have a
clue.

Avery opens her mouth wide,
“Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah-blah, la-blah de-blah, blah.
Blah, blah, blah, blah-blah, la
blah, blah de blah, blah . . .”

I open mine, too. But I am
singing Jakes first song,
Hall of
Fire
. “Now I’m finally getting old.
Drinking Sherry, growing mold . . .”

On the count of
three
.

“Blah, la blah, blah . . .”

“This life is not what I was sold.” I
let the melody hang, like my head.

One.

Bending my neck as far
forward as I can, my chin touches my chest.
I’m sorry, Jake
.

“Blah-de-blah-blah blah, la blah, blah
de blah, blah.” Avery babbles in tune, singing along.

My feet begin to move, slipping across
the floor in what I hope appears to be an impromptu dance to the
rhythm in my head. “We didn’t make it . . .”

Two.

With one last deep breath and all the
momentum I can muster, I jerk and shift, whipping my neck back,
aiming for the cement tiles of the shower wall.

I get it now: Good.
Bye.

Three.

“We didn’t make it after—”

57

—Angel

I’m a stone.

I have been thrown. I plopped into the
water and am sinking to the bottom.

A great river thrashes around
me.

Fish float belly up along the surface
of the murky damp.

Its cold, but I don’t
shiver.

Then hot, but I don’t burn.

I want the water to lift me, to sweep
me from this place on its’ current.

58

—Angel

I’m awake?

Shit.

There is a gigantic pulsing pain
streaking from my forehead to my neck.

Shitty shit!

And the doctor is convinced I need to
see it.

After a quick glance at the enormous
knot protruding over my right eye, I drop the handle of the
mirror.

He rattles on about my
“intraparenchymal hemorrhage with contusions.” Or some idiot crap
like that.

I could not care less if I wanted to.
It’s useless.

I’m useless.

A complete failure.

Shit. Shit.

Shit.

Shit.

Shitty-shit.

Shit.

Shit. Shit.
Shit.

5
9

—Angel

I don’t know how long I’ve been in the
infirmary and won’t ask. I’ve accepted that I’m a useless
good-for-nothing and stopped trying.

I do whatever they tell me.

It’s hopeless. Useless.

I screw up everything. Every.
Time.

So, when they tell me to eat, I eat.
Maybe I’ll get lucky and choke.

They tell me to sleep, I
sleep.

They want me to piss, I
piss.

I take their zombie medications and
hope for an incompetent nurse and an overdose.

I wish they would tell me
to die
.

6
0

—Angel

The nurses and doctors want to know
what happened even though there is an eyewitness who told them I
was showering like I always did. My supervising orderly would say I
was smiling, singing, and stupidly trying to dance in the shower
while covered in slippery soap. I know that’s what the orderly saw,
because that’s what I did.

But they’re still asking. They want me
to say it. They want me to tell them I tripped so they can ask if
that’s the truth. They want to call me a liar.

“Mister Brandon has been calling every
day to check on you. I have the number, so whenever you’re ready to
call, let me know and I’ll make sure it happens.” Some random nurse
says.

“Mister Brandon. I don’t want to talk
to him.” I turn over in my bed, staring at the wall while the
patter of retreating feet fades from my room.

The last thing I need right now is
another announcement. Another judgment. Another person repeating to
me the same words I was told when my trial ended: I will die in
this place. Apparently, it will be later rather than
sooner.

I scoff, thinking of dying and wishing
that A—and stop the thought right there. I’ve not seen . . . hide
or hair of a certain someone since that day in the
shower.

I woke up without . . . and don’t want
to jinx anything.

If I wonder too much . . .

. . . might appear up and start in on
me.

61

—
Angel

An orderly sets my lunch on the tray
table. He’s too far off to one side, so I can’t see what he’s doing
until the table rolls over in front of me, swinging over my bed,
just above my lap.

It’s all steaming finger food. Lucky
me—no flatware required. The orderly remains quiet, watching me
while I slowly eat.

When I push the tray away, I hear the
quiet scratch of writing. Recording my intake.

Not long after he’s gone, a different
nurse enters. She’s got my little paper cups of medication and a
clear plastic cup of apple juice. I swallow down the contents of
each container she hands me and open my mouth wide, showing all my
teeth, wiggling my tongue around so she can see I took all of them.
“It would be nice if you could learn to trust me.”

She almost smiles. “Trust has nothing
to do with it. It’s in my job description.”

Not long after she’s gone, the clean
lines of the room and walls fray, but my mind sharpens. Conversely,
my limbs are overcome with that familiar leaden
sensation.

And the room is so quiet. There are no
feet shuffling, no muffled sounds in the corners or creaks in the
walls. It’s just a wonderful, tranquil quiet. A feeling I don’t
think I have ever felt before.

I wonder if smashing my head on the
shower wall knocked something right, because I have never felt this
level of . . . precision. Clarity. It’s strange, my entire life I
lived with a sort of confused duality and was never able to
recognize it. Now that it’s gone, though, I can feel the
difference. The neurological oneness.

+++

After I’ve surrendered to living
inside the curtain of heavy haze, Mister Brandon magically appears.
I didn’t see him walk in or hear a knock. He’s just suddenly here,
sitting beside my bed. Talking. And even though I didn’t catch the
beginning of his monologue, I’m kind of following along.

“. . . No danger to anyone. The date’s
already been set. In six months time, Canyon View will be
closed.”

“What?” My brain is much sharper than
it appears. My eyes can’t find their focus the way my thoughts
have. The tone he’s using . . . it’s almost upbeat.