Page 39 of Coiled Tight
Even then. There was no exasperation or even sharpness to his tone. I got the feeling that he saw me as a project at times, like one of the horses he rehabilitated because, unlike me, he really had a magic touch with animals, but I didn’t have it in me to be annoyed by it.
It might be because seeing me as a project or one of his horses didn’t equate to treating me with the condescension or the belittling I associated with it. The latter got even worse if the person learned about the age play, and then I started running like the guy who made videos waving red flags and running around in utter chaos.
“Meds.”
My throat was dry, but I forced the word out. I didn’t like it. Shame was still attached to it, to the idea that Ineededthe pills, but I was… I needed to come down, and like… I knew how I worked. Was I calming down? Yes. But it would only be temporary if I didn’t take something to make sure I stayed there.
Then again…
I started shaking my head.
“Do you or do you not want meds?”
I covered my face with both hands and mumbled into them. “If you go grab my meds, you’ll see I unpacked everything instead of just the basics like a normal person, and you’ll hate me, and then?—”
If he didn’t hate me already.
Anxiety spiked again as I considered the possibility.
At the end of the day, why wouldn’t he? He might just be here with me because I was the only vet available, and becausehe was the kind of person who wouldn’t say shit to my face if he found me insufferable. Why wouldn’t he find me insufferable?
Everyone did.
Or should.
I didn’t know.
“Are your meds in the wardrobe?”
“Uh-huh.”
The mattress dipped with his weight as he moved. Steps could be heard through the wooden floor that had seen better days. I peered through my fingers as he opened the doors to the wardrobe. I hadn’t even hung all the clothes because there had been no time.
Oh shit, I really was the worst.
I readied myself for grunts and huffs and maybe a sudden bang on the door—although I really wished he didn’t do that. The wardrobe had creaked enough when I stuffed everything in. It wouldn’t surprise me if the door came off its hinges with the barest of pressure.
“Here it is.”
Huh?
It was easy to tell that I was very much out of it because it took me an embarrassingly long time—fine, like five seconds—to realize what he was talking about and get moving. Get moving, obviously meant to grab the bottle of water he handed me and the pill. He’d even taken it out of the plastic thingy. I always forgot the name. It never felt important until I had to use it, and then I grew frustrated with myself. It wasn’t as if it was a word so far out of my scope. Animals needed meds, too, and they came in the same stupid?—
“Cam.”
Shit.
Fun fact: staring at a pill and/or holding it didn’t magically make it work. Who would’ve thought?
At least I had the type of metabolism that meant pills worked extra fast on me. No one had been able to explain it or convince me that it wasn’t my anxiety making my body work extra fast, but it was a thing. Had been for as long as I could remember.
“I’m going to get very foggy.”
That was another thing—they had a stronger effect than they did on an average person. Nothing life-threatening, but I noticed it, and that was enough to have it buzzing around in my head.
“I know how Xanax works,” he said.
He just said that, because nothing fazed him, and?—
