Page 159 of Nine-Tenths

I feel…

Nothing.

The next morning, I can hear people moving around below me in the house.

I don't get out of bed.

See? Easy choice.

Because… what's the point?

The world is going to keep going on around me, no matter what I say, or what I want, or what I fight for. This is it. This is my reality. For the rest of my life. Forever.

I don't matter.

I will never matter again.

My phone is filled with messages I don't want to deal with, so I turn it off, bury my head under the pillow, and close my eyes. I can't say I properly sleep. Time passes, I doze, nothing changes. The room stays dark, because I'd drawn the heavy hunter-green velvet curtains. My stomach rumbles, but I ignore it. My bladder complains, so I shuffle to the ensuite with my eyes closed, and then go right back to the bed.

Someone knocks.

"Colin," Dav calls through the door. "Are you awake, darling? No one has seen you yet this morning. Aren't you hungry?"

I stare at the ceiling. Take a deep breath. Let it out again. It only bubbles and shakes a little.

Doesn't matter.

So what.

"Love?"

I don't answer.

"Okay, then. You just rest. I'll come back at dinner."

He comes back, but I still don't want to see him any more than I did at lunch.

It's his house. He has the key to this room. He can get in if he wants.

Clearly he doesn't want to.

I can't tell if I'm angry or relieved. If he wants something, he should come in and take it, right? If I have to be here, the least he could do iswantme. On the other hand, as long as he stays on one side of the locked door, I can live on this one, in my fragile and illusionary bubble of agency. Ha! Everything under this roof belongs to him, including this room. Including me.

Loathing myself, loathing him, I pull the covers over my head, ignore my belly, and close my eyes.

It's very early morning when I get up again, full of jumping, prickling energy. When I throw back the curtains, the sky is bright with the kind of starscape you don't get in the city.

It's romantic.

It's hateful.

I yank the curtains shut, pace the room, clenching and unclenching my fists, trying to decide if I would feel better if I punched something. No, I'd just hurt my hand. What if I screamed? No, that would make people come running. I hate feeling impotent and useless.

Filled with… withso muchI can't do anything with. Anxious energy, fury, and… and… dreams, and hopes, and potential and—and—I fist my hands in my hair, jump up and down on the spot, try to get this frog-hooked-up-to-a-battery feeling out from under my skin. I drop to the floor and do as many push-ups as I can manage, until I’m wet with sweat.

It doesn't do anything for the anger, but at least I don't feel like a lit stick of dynamite anymore. The tight, hard feeling of wanting to scream presses against the hollow of my throat, and when I go into the bathroom to shower, it comes out as a hot, disgusting spew of vomit. I choke, and cough, and make the quietest noises of hurt and frustration that can be disguised by the running water, and kick the tile wall, and then, then…

All the fight in me evaporates. It feels like a herculean effort to even turn off the water and pull a towel down from the rack. I wrap it around my hips, not bothering to dry my hair, not caring.

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