Page 88 of Fragmented Illusions
“Dahlia.”
Or maybe not.
“Dahlia, can you hear me?” Mother sniffles. I feel her fingers wrap around my wrist, which is strapped to the bed. Her fingers feel cold to the touch, and they send a deep shiver through me. It unsettles me, leaving a cold stain on my skin that was once warmed by the boys.
My boys.
This is hard. Before, it was easy to succumb to them. I didn’t have anything to fight for, but now I know what I’m losing and it’s hard to let them go.
Maybe if I let myself keep the pills down, I will fall in the stupor and won’t even remember them. Perhaps not remembering is the best way to go.
Fight, Fallon.
It whispers in my ear, although its voice is so faint, I barely hear it.
I choose to ignore it for the first time in my life.
“It’s time for your meds, honey,” my mother informs me, and not even two seconds later, the heavy door is creaking open. Footsteps sound throughout the room with an occasional squeak on the polished floor. They stop right next to me, and I instinctively flinch at the close proximity.
Mother must feel it because she tightens her grip on my hand. My body screams at me to move, to yank my arm away from her, but I resist vehemently. The restraints on each of my limbs would restrict the movement anyway.
It’s useless.
“Take this, honey.” I feel the bumpy ridge of the paper cup against my dry, cracked lips. I part them and the pills slide along my tongue. A couple of them stick to my tongue and the immediate bitterness has me gagging.
I try to spit them up, but then water is pouring down my throat. Because I’m lying on my back, I have to swallow otherwise I’ll choke. So I do. The medication slides down my throat in a thick ball. The weight of them and what they mean sit at the pit of my stomach.
The instant regret floods through me. I shouldn’t have swallowed them. What did I do? What did I do?!
It’s too late, Fallon.
You gave into them again.
I will miss you.
Spencer
“I’m sore as a motherfucker this morning.” I groan as Solomon and I make our way down the wooden staircase to get some much needed coffee
“It’s afternoon,” is all he says, and I snort.
“Still. Digging deep in that snow, then the rock-hard ground on top of the wind? I’m surprised we didn’t get frostbite.” I stifle a yawn as we step into the kitchen. It’s surprisingly quiet for one PM on a Saturday.
Solomon pulls down two mugs. He hands me one then goes about making a pot. I plop my ass in a barstool in front of the counter as I watch Sol pour the water into the reservoir then pushes the on button.
It immediately begins spitting out brown liquid and soon after, the heavy aroma of coffee filters through the room. I close my eyes and inhale deeply. The smell of coffee always reminds me of Sol. Mint and coffee.
“You can’t think about that right now,” Solomon spits out as he takes a seat next to me. His mug is already filled with the steaming liquid, and he blows on it for a second before taking a languid sip.
I’m transfixed as I watch his lips purse as he blows across his coffee. My eyes follow the bobbing movement of his sharp Adam’s apple as he swallows. His throat is covered in a light dusting of hair from not shaving for a few days and I know it’s rough against the skin.
My hole clenches around nothing at the memory of him inside of me last night—and me inside of Fallon.
Ecstasy is what it was.
“Here, text our pretty girl. See where her mind is.” He tosses me the phone and I smile as I pull up our text thread.
Us: pretty girl… are you awake?
