Page 83 of Caged

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Spring Break, Junior Year,

Sigma

I’m pretty sure I have concussed myself.

I’m not sure if it’s the same day or a different day. Muted sunlight shines through the dull, cloudy sky. Was it like this when I passed out?

It takes considerable effort to roll onto my side.

My head throbs.

I should drink water. Do pain pills count as food?

Standing is out of the question. Slowly, I crawl to the bathroom.

Wrapping my hands around the ledge of the porcelain countertop, I hoist myself up. My limbs shake with fatigue. Cupping my hands under the faucet, I bend down to slurp the pooled water.

When is the last time I showered? Maybe a bath tonight. Or today. Or, whenever. Does it even matter?

The putrid, metallic scent of bloody, used tampons and homemade pads fills my nose, which is fitting since I’ve transformed into a member of the walking dead.

Back to work.

I don’t bother to look at my reflection. I don’t want to know, nor do I care.

Sitting on the window ledge feels too precarious, so I wheel over Kieren’s desk chair. With an elbow propped on the windowsill, I wearily rest my chin in my palm.

What was I even doing?

Right.

Scraping.

I’m past hungry.

I don’t get out of bed on Saturday until what I assume is late afternoon.

I smell, or I think I smell, so I decide it's time to bathe.

Floral-scented body wash mixes with the foul odor of decaying blood. Little flies swirl around the full wastebasket, landing on the mirror as I finally work up the courage to look at my reflection.

I don’t know this person.

Purple rings encircle my bloodshot eyes. My skin is ashen. My face gaunt.

I have no fight left in me.

I barely flinch at the scalding water as I carefully lower myself into the tub.

My head lolls to the side, and I sense myself drifting.

But that’s okay.

The devil can take me.

I’ve had enough.

Try one more time. Try.

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