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Unwilling or unable to keep my eyes open and face this horror, I’ll never know which, I give in to the riptides of pain and shock pulling me under and succumb to the welcoming darkness.
The next time I wake, clear-headed with a hollow feeling in my stomach, it’s to an empty room, the door unguarded.
Maybe it had been a nightmare after all. It had to be. I must have overdosed again and they’d taken me to an exclusive healing resort to clean out my system. In a week or two, they’ll ship me back to Hollywood, dope me up to get through another week of rehearsals, appearances, and tapings, and then repeat.
Except…this resort is nothing like any of the others they’ve ever stuck me in. They may treat me like a trained animal for their amusement, but even so, I’m a spoiled pet. In return for good behavior and press, I receive the best care, food, transportation and lodging.
At one point, it must have been a nice place, the crème de la crème of technological advances. There are screens embedded into the walls that read out my vitals from sensors attached to my wrists, chest, and temples. Except, the technology is years out of date, usable, but clunky and sluggish. The room is clean and well-maintained, but the white walls have faded with time and cracks spider-web across the surface.
It doesn’t matter. I’ll just call my assistant and have them pick me up early. I have a show in two days and we start shooting two days after that, I think. Actually, I’m not sure. Everything’s so hazy in my mind. I don’t even know what day or time it is or where the hell I’m at, but there’s no way I can take any time off now. I’m never able to take vacations so I certainly don’t have time for a rehab stint. They must know that. I need to get ahold of Kevin. As my talent manager, he’ll help me make sense of all this.
I climb out of the bed and scurry over to one of the computer screens, despite the soreness in my stomach that must have come from them pumping the drugs from my system, and frown. The dark green backdrop and flashing readouts don’t look like any other operating system I’ve ever used. Maybe it’s some sort of retro deal? I press menu options randomly, hoping to find a familiar command, to no avail.
What in the hell place have they stuck me in?
The aching in my stomach increases and I remember the dream. The waves of pain. It should scare me how much I’ve let the drugs take over my life, but there are worse things than risking my health to cope with my choices.
I block out the soreness as I move to a different screen. This one sets off an alarm the moment I touch it and I whirl around in surprise, my body screaming in protest. Wetness floods my panties and for the first time in a long time, I feel the stirrings of embarrassment. Have I really fallen so far that I can’t even control my bodily functions?
As the alarms blare in the background, I stumble around the room and search for the bathroom. There’s no way in hell I’ll let anyone see me in this state. They may require confidentiality at places like this, but gossip is a hot commodity and everyone can be bought if the price is right. I’m living proof of that.
I find the bathroom on the second try. The first door contained a supply closet with more outdated technology, including odd breathing masks, tablet screens and handheld devices. I don’t even want to know what the bodysuits are for.
A shower will help clear my mind. Then everything will start making sense.
I waste ten minutes trying to figure out the controls for the odd shower stall until I give up. When the attendants come back, I’ll have them show me how to use it. Until then, I’ll just change out of my dirty clothes and hope I don’t smell. I strip from the hospital gown and throw it in a corner.
I almost do the same with my serviceable underwear—then I spot the blood.
My vision swims and my ears ring so loudly, I can no longer hear the alarm. I force myself to discard the panties along with the hospital gown. Then I give myself instructions. First step, use the washcloth on the lip of the sink to wash as best you can. Find the soap, Aria. Wash your body, Aria. Don’t imagine what horrors caused the blood. Don’t think. That’s the number one rule. Don’t think. Just do.
Act like reality is the lie and fantasy is the truth.
I don’t know how long I stand in front of the mirror once I’ve done a cursory washing. Too long. Not long enough. The alarms blare until I can’t hear my own thoughts—which is probably a good thing.
