Page 14 of Creatures Like Us
“I know,” Noah says softly. “You have to get through it. You’ll feel better when it’s over.”
“What day is it?” I sob.
“Monday.”
Fuck, I slept through the whole weekend. I had no idea it’s been that long. I don’t think I’ll be able to sleep any more, though, despite my exhaustion. I feel restless and antsy, unable to focus on one thought before the next one comes knocking, and I’m unable to stop fucking crying, unable to stop hurting. My muscles tense up, and my heart pounds erratically. It hurts. It fucking hurts.
“Noah, please,” I beg. “Let me go.”
Noah says nothing. He just rounds the bed and fetches my bucket before he goes into a room by the stairs. A bathroom, I guess it must be; I can hear a toilet flushing as he gets rid of the contents of the bucket.
When he returns, I motion desperately for the bucket, and as soon as he gives it to me, I throw myself into it, hulking upthe contents of my stomach, crying all the while, pathetic noises tearing from my throat.
Worst of all, Noah watches me while I do it. Sitting in that damn chair, out of my reach. I ought to kill him for this. One day, I might get the chance, and if I do, I’ll take it without hesitation. Wow, I’m fucking losing it. If Noah doesn’t let me go soon, I’ll have lost everything—control over my mind and my bodily functions, and even my will to live.
“Fuck you,” I sob into the bucket. “Fuck you.”
“That’s it. Get it all out, Goldilocks. You’ll feel better.”
“Shut up. I hate you.” I want to hurt him, and with the inability to do so physically, I’m forced to settle for words. It seems to have the desired effect; when I glance up, Noah is fidgeting with his hands, looking down at his lap.
Yeah, he likes me, all right.
Not in the exact same way Kayla liked me, but it’s similar. He’s awkward as hell, and that emotionless face of his is hard to read, but anytime I voice any dislike of him, he gets all sad and twitchy and uncomfortable.
Finally, I have something to hold over him, something that will level this twisted playing field between us. Hurting his feelings might make me forget my own pain. So deep runs my desperation that I’d go to those lengths to feel better, like some insecure bully.
It’s my druggie brain talking, I know. If I could only get some relief, I wouldn’t be like this.
I didn’t use to be like this.
I don’twantto be like this, but I can’t help it.
“Do you think I’ll ever not hate you?” I ask, wiping my chin. The smell alone makes me dry-heave.
“I don’t know,” Noah mumbles.
“Do you think this will work—keeping me prisoner like this? For how long?”
“For as long as it takes.”
“For what? For me to stop craving drugs? That’s never going to happen. For me to start liking you, is that what you want? Do you think I’ll be grateful for this?”
“You don’t have to be grateful,” Noah says with a small shrug. “I just want to—”
“Help me?” I yell. “With this?” I rattle my makeshift handcuff, pulling at it, and the edges of the chain dig painfully into my wrist. It’s a sharper pain, a clearer pain, than the pain inside me, so I keep doing it—pulling at the chain, even as it scrapes my skin until redness blooms underneath.
“Stop that,” Noah says.
“Why?” I sob.
“There’s no need for more pain.”
“No? Then let me go! I won’t be in pain if you let me go.”
“If I let you go, you’ll just get high again.”
“I won’t! I’ll get clean, I promise. Just let me go!”
