Page 12 of Ice
Lissa
Isatthereformaybeten minutes, absorbing every word he’d spat at me with anger, every nerve he’d touched, every ounce of pain he’d revealed. My heart was still racing, and it tooka whole glass of water for me to regain my composure. For my hands to tremble a little less.
Ice was such an angry, troubled man, and even at his angriest, something inside me wanted to comfort him, to nurture and protect him. I couldn’t imagine he’d ever see me as anything other than the bitch who sat and told him she understood his issues.Understood. Why the hell did I say it?I understand… that’s not how I was trained.
It’s like a red flag to a bull. Of course I don’t understand. Not in the same way. I’ve been witness to what he’s going through, time and time again, but I’ve never been an addict myself. Maybe my introduction to addiction earlier in life had made me even more certain that I’d never fall down that hole, and go through the same hell.
“Lissa? Why are you still here? I saw him leave.” I took a breath, nodding at Cammy, our receptionist. “Are you okay?”
She’d come to check on me. It was so clear. Whenever we had someone leave in that kind of a temper, she’d always come to make sure we were okay.
I nodded at her. “I’m fine. He was agitated, but it wasn’t directed at me.” Not all of it, anyway.
“It doesn’t matter where it was aimed. It doesn’t leave you unscathed.” She was right about that. I swallowed hard, pushing up from my chair.
“I’m okay, but thanks, Cammy. I… I’m going to head off home now that I’m done. You okay with this?”
She waved her hand at me, already gathering up the glasses and jug.
“Have a good weekend. Rest up. Forget all of these assholes.”
“They’re not assholes, Cammy. Well… not all of them. They’re suffering. Nobody is their best self while they’re in pain.”
“Yeah yeah, keep telling yourself that. They use you as a punching bag, and you know it.”
I left before I broke. The longer I let Ice’s words crash back down on me, the closer I came to losing it. I was halfway down the road when the tears started, and I was forced to pull over at the side of the road, until I could calm down enough to keep driving.
The irony of what I do is that I have nobody to talk to on days when the job hits me like this. I have to go home, and deal with it alone. Not just because I can’t talk about what others confide in me, but because the only people I could turn to are my mother and stepfather, and they both think the job is too much for me, so I couldn’t prove them right.
At home, I changed into fleecy trousers and a vest, and curled up on my sofa with a mug of hot chocolate, and a book. I needed to unwind. Relax. I needed to feel anything other than the way he’d made me feel. Hurt. Defensive. Guilty. Horny. What a confusing mess of emotions he’d left me with.
And he hadn’t done anything to make me feel that he’d even want to be near me in any way, especially willingly. So why was I so attracted to him? Because I couldn’t have him? Because he’d reject me? Because I always let myself get hurt?
When tears blinded me too much to see the words on the page, I set the book back down, and cradled my drink, giving in and letting everything crash down onto me, so that maybe, just maybe, I could feel better after.
When I fell asleep, I had recurring dreams about a man with cold grey eyes, and a tortured soul. It woke me up again, and left me restless and wide awake.
Seven
Icouldn’tsleep.HowcouldI fucking sleep? All I could see when I closed my eyes was her fucking face. The way she flinched at my words, the way I saw every fucking one of them hit her like verbal projectiles. Normally it was everything else keeping me awake. Normally it was my need for something other than just my blood flowing through my veins.
Tonight though…it was guilt. I felt like a complete fucking asshole.
I grabbed her business card from the bedside cabinet. I’d make a point of ringing in the morning for a new appointment, but then tomorrow was Saturday. Were they even open Saturdays? Were they at least open to make appointments?
I had this desperate urge to apologise. To beg her to forgive the way I spoke to her. To explain that it wasn’t her fault that I’d been such an asshole. That I knew she’d only been trying to help me.
I dialled the number on the card, hoping the answer machine would tell me their hours or something, so I’d know if I could even book an appointment tomorrow.
As well as opening hours, they offered an emergency number. For anyone who was struggling with, you know, the urge to go and indulge that desperate need to use. To ease the burn. The agonising desperation.
Wait… it was a mobile number. What if it was hers? What if I was just that lucky?
I stared at my phone. I’d have to ring back to get the number and write it down. Of course there would be an out of hours service.
I rang back to get the number, and then stared at it. It wouldn’t be her. And even if it was, what right did I have to call her? I’d been an asshole to her. She’d been trying to help me, and I’d yelled at her, and insulted her, like she didn’t matter.
I wimped out in the end, and sent a text. Even that made me feel guilty, because what if someone was really struggling, and I tied up the person’s attention on this number?
