Page 24 of Brutal Truths

As I continue shuffling my heavy legs, the old boards groan. The closer I get to the large wooden door, its shiny brass handle comes into focus. My fingers tighten around the cool metal, feeling out of place under my grip.

It doesn’t budge. Doesn’t give. Nothing.

“Fuck.” The smooth wood meets my forehead as I take a moment to rest. “Okay. It’s not like I expected he’d make this easy on me. Let me just walk out of here.”

I turn, propping my back against the door, pushing myself to think through the haze.

It’s not easy. My head hurts, making my brain foggy.

When I glance to my right, there’s another door I couldn’t see from the bed. Hopefully, it’s a bathroom. But it could just be a closet.

Inhaling, I take a deep breath before standing upright again to make my way to the door. It takes longer than it should; my body has to fight for every damn step.

The heavy door opens with a light push, its hinges groaning in protest as it swings inward. The sound scrapes along my nerves, too loud in the silence.

The smell hit me next.

Stale. Damp. Unsanitary.

It clings to the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow it down as I run my hand along the wall until I find a light switch and flick it on. The bulb sputters, flickers, then finally steadies.

I almost wish it hadn’t.

The light reveals a bathroom that’s seen better days. Its tub stretches along one wall, a depressing expanse of chipped, dingy white porcelain, stripped of the privacy curtain. The rusty rod hangs empty above it. A line of black mold, like a sinister grin, follows the edges where the once-white caulk had been.

A knot tightens in my stomach.

Dead bugs litter the uneven floor, crunching faintly underfoot as I step inside. I freeze for half a second, a shiver tracing its way up my spine, before forcing myself to keep moving.

I’m so tired, my body grows heavier by the second.

The toilet isn’t much better. Rust stains coat the inside, though the rest looks like someone at leased wiped it down. Its seat is bright white. Too white. The only new thing in here.

When I spin to the right, my hands land on the vanity, and I become frozen in place. My severe headache finally makes sense.

The arsehole who punched me did one hell of a job. My right cheek is now an ugly shade of purple, swollen enough to distort my face. When I move my jaw even a little, a sharp, stabbing sensation shoots through my cheekbone, making the room spin and highlighting my instability.

Even my goddamn ear aches.

A sign the drugs are fading from my system. Which means nausea will come next.

As I study the damage more closely, I grow queasier. I’m almost certain the bone is fractured. The pain too deep, too sharp to be anything less. I don’t know how my eye isn’t swollen shut, given the amount of swelling and discoloration on that side of my face.

The left side is not much better in its own way.

Pale. Washed out. Nothing how my skin normally looks.

I’ve always had a warm olive tone, giving me a sun-kissed appearance even in the dead of winter. Larkin used to tease me about how she envied it. Said she’d trade her fair complexion for it in a heartbeat.

Leaning closer, I squint at my reflection, trying to gauge my pupils. I blink a few times, but the lighting in here is shit, making it impossible to tell if they’re blown.

I’m pretty sure they are. It would explain the light sensitivity. The nausea. The way my stomach keeps threatening to turn even now.

Glancing down at the counter, I force my focus elsewhere.

Five items are lined up like someone planned this. A hairbrush. A stack of small paper cups. An unopened toothbrush. A box of toothpaste. And an unused bar of soap.

Bare essentials. Enough to make me feel human for the time being.