Page 10 of For a Goode Time Call…
When I went in, I found Cassie in the stall, passed out.
I made sure her clothing was all in the right places, and then lifted her in my arms and carried her out. Kitty gave me directions to her mom’s house, but I remembered Cassie saying her mom would give her a hard time. I debated, and then figured she’d rather deal with her mom on her own after she’d sobered up.
So, I carried her back to my place.
Tiny little thing. Barely weighed anything at all.
But damn, she carried a lot of hurt inside.
Cassie
Ohhh god. Oh god.
Oh…fuck my entire skull.
Nope. Not time to be alive yet. Too soon. Wayyy too soon.
How about now?
Nope. Still hurts to be alive. Even the thought of opening my eyes sounded like agony.
“Cassie?” A voice, whispering as quietly as possible, but still a deep, powerful, bone-rattling bass rumble.
Who? Familiar, and comforting, somehow.
“Ng. Gah. Nnnng.”
A blast of air through nostrils—a laugh. “Here. I’ve got you.” A paw, so big it cradled my entire skull, lifted me gently. I sighed, sinking into the paw, letting it support me. My head tipped forward. “Open your mouth, darlin’.”
I couldn’t even formulate a protest against being called darling. I opened my mouth, and felt pills touch my tongue. A plastic rim touched my lips, and I gingerly allowed the cool wetness into my mouth.
I swallowed hesitantly—my throat was on fire, raspy, bitter, rough. My mouth hurt, and the water felt nice. My stomach didn’t agree, though.
“Now this.” A different something was being held to my lips, and I let him pour something into my mouth, tasted it, swallowed it. Sweet, but not too sweet.
“It’s water with electrolytes. Keeps you from getting too dehydrated.”
“Nggg.” It was all I could manage, and I wasn’t sure what it was even supposed to mean. I wasn’t even really conscious. I wasn’t a person. Just a puddle of poison and agony.
“Sleep.”
“Mmm.”
Back under the sweet, blessed veil of nothingness.
Personhood washed over me,slowly. Being alive was hot and painful.
My body ached. My soul felt…bitter, razed into coals.
My eyelids felt like they’d been duct-taped to my eyeballs and then the duct tape had been ripped off. Opening them hurt so bad I wanted to cry, because maybe the tears would soothe the burn.
Where was I? I didn’t recognize anything; I was in a loft, something like eight feet wide and square, the entire space taken up by beds—two queen mattresses side by side, it seemed. A steeply sloped roof overhead, with drawers in the walls all around the bed, and a dormer window at my feet, overlooking Ketchikan, mountains in the distance, green and white and brown and slate gray.
I was wrapped in blankets, cocooned in a nest of flannel and fleece. Still dressed in all my clothes, sans socks and shoes. My hair was loose, out of the ponytail.
I took stock, now that I was sort of alive: Fucked. That’s how I felt. But it was more than just being hungover. I was feverish—achy, tingly skin, headache, congested…on top of being hungover.
And I had to pee worse than I’ve ever had to pee in my life, and I once held it for an eleven-hour high-speed train ride from Paris to Rome. My problem right now was that I hurt too bad to move. I was weak, to the point of paralysis. I summoned all my strength, and managed a hoarse whisper.
