I hate myself with every leaden fucking step I take to the bathroom to throw up.
Dawn inches across the carpeted floor through the windows, the curtains pulled open, swaying in a phantom breeze.
I know I should close them—that the sun’s going to crack my skull in two when it finally rises in the sky.
But I left them open last night because I was thinking about Sloan, looking up at the stars, trying to see all the way to one of those universes out there where I still have her.
I leave them like that—it’d be a fitting punishment—press a triptan nasal spray to my nose, swallow a different pill with asedative, and hope I fall asleep again even though I don’t deserve it.
Sloan
I don’t sleep.
In fact, my brain decides to replay the worst mistakes I’ve ever made.
There are a lot of things about my brain I hate, but I think the rumination might be the worst.
I think about things from years and years ago.
I think about times I laughed too loudly or talked too much, and maybe it’s my imagination now after all this time—our brains can’t be trusted, not really—but I think about everyone falling silent afterwards, and staring at me with forced smiles and abject pity, because really, who was I to think I had a right to take up space?
I think about all the conversations about me and echoes of laughter that took place behind closed doors.
I think about the time Bohdan caught me counting in the library and laughed, because what was that, if not laughable? Who takes comfort in numbers?
I think about the times I’ve made him late because I had to change outfits because the clothes didn’t sit right on my skin, and even though he said it was okay, I don’t think it was okay after all.
I think about the times I threw tantrums almost like a child, crying because things were too loud and too big and too much and he had to hold me against his chest. He said that was okay too, but it couldn’t have been, not really.
I think about how he said he loved every single part of me and that he wouldn’t change my brain even though that was my number one wish and still is after all these years, because my brain made me the person he loved more than anything. But he couldn’t have loved me all that much.
I think about how the last time I said I love you, something very bad happened and I can never say it again, because the next time, it might be worse.
I beg it to stop, but nothing helps.
I try counting. I try to reassure myself even though that solves nothing. I try to shake the thoughts out of my head. I try cold water. I try ice from the freezer.
I give up and take an Ativan when the sky turns the same colour as Bohdan’s eyes.
Sloan
Livorno—not Florence, because Talon really doesn’t know geography—looks like it’s probably quite beautiful from the balcony of the ship. A crumbling fort sits to the left, stretching out from the city, almost touching the quays of the harbour, and beyond the modern port terminal, all glass panels and shining windows, it looks like there’s a cobblestone street leading right into the central piazza.
According to Talon, who was most definitely fed the information by the suite concierge, the port can accommodate up to eleven ships.
And today, ours is the only one docked.
Apparently, it’s a nice city with enough to see when you’re walking around. So much so that he made an executive decision to skip the ninety-kilometre drive to Florence, saying it would be hipper, cooler around here. Less touristy.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him that probably wasn’t something he could achieve in one of the main port cities of theTuscan coast, but as it turned out, I didn’t have the heart to get out of bed on time today, either.
Blinking behind my sunglasses, my brain feels foggier than it should, in this dull post-Ativan haze.
Maybe not really post at all because it’s barely nine a.m., and I didn’t look at the clock when I took it, but it couldn’t have been later than five.
It’s quiet though, my thoughts and all those mean horrible things moving along so sluggishly that they’re in the distance, and I can’t really touch them.
But the balcony door slides open, and I start forward at the same time Bohdan walks out—shirtless—shoving a tiny bottle to his left nostril and pressing down on the right side before inhaling.
